


I tear my soul to cease the pain, I think maybe you feel the same.

by aactionjohnny



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, New York City, Reunions, Star-crossed, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-06-27 04:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19783381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: "You go too fast for me."Nothing has ever hurt worse than that. Crowley needed a change of scenery, someplace busy and manic and far, far away. Even amidst all the unpredictability of New York, he is floored by the appearance of Aziraphale, who came looking for him.Once he’s there, everything changes. Their love always changes everything, and it will only become more complicated.





	1. The sky is falling

**Author's Note:**

> Ok I must admit first off that this is entirely self-indulgent but I hope you like it too. I live like 2 hours north of nyc and I think it's a very romantic setting, because I'm a basic bitch, and I love writing about it. That and I think Crowley fits in very well with the crowd, which I'm loosely modeling after all the folks that hung out in Warhol's Factory. 
> 
> Title is from Bowie's "Letter to Hermione."
> 
> EDIT: this fic ended up going places I didn’t expect it to! But I like it

  1. _London_.



From the moment Crowley hears the distinct clicking of the passenger door slamming shut, the space between the front seats of the Bentley seems to expand. Miles away, the spot where Aziraphale had just been sitting disappearing into an abyss. _ You go too fast for me _ . What in the Hell does that mean? Crowley’s hardly enough of an idiot to think it had anything whatsoever to do with his driving, of course. It cut far too deep for it to be that simple. The words ring in his ears as he sits in the car, as the rain starts to pour, as the lights of even the dodgiest of establishments turn off, the neon ceasing to flicker. He’s got a thermos of Holy Water squeezed between his thighs. Nothing but a thick plastic cap keeping him from utter destruction, and there’s some foolish, nonsensical part of him that wishes he could just pour it over his head and never have to think ever again.

Not about his job, and certainly not about Aziraphale. 

He turns the key to start the engine, deciding he ought to just go home. He hates that he wished so much to spend the night driving his Angel wherever he wished to go. He had hoped it would be very far away, and that it would take hours. But he’s got plants to water and scold, and there is nothing so soothing as sleep, even if you do it just so that the day will end. Maybe he’ll sleep a few months, if he can. Maybe then it will stop stinging so deep that it transcends his corporeal state. 

“...fuck does _ that  _ mean?” he mumbles as he drives, windshield soaked, terrorizing the laypeople. “ _ Too fast _ . Tell you what, he’s certainly not getting any more rides from me.  _ Too fast _ . It’s…” He makes a hard right, cutting the wheel much harder than he has to.”It’s not like I’m asking him to _ run away  _ with me, for fuck’s sake.” He turns the radio up, way up, the kind of volume that would hurt weak, human ears. Joan Baez’s velvet voice blares within the Bentley, and he winces and grips the steering wheel. 

_ There's no need for anger, there's no need for blame. _

_ There's nothing to prove, everything's still the same. _

_ Just a table standing empty by the edge of the sea, _

_ Means farewell, Angelina, the sky is trembling and I must leave _ .

He sniffs, trying with all his demonic might to waylay the stupid, stupid tears. 

When he arrives at his flat, Joan’s done singing. Thank God, or whomever. He slams the door, muttering an apology to his dear, dear car, and carries the thermos inside, holding it as if it is made of the thinnest glass. 

“Don’t gloat you,” he says to his fern. “It’ll only get worse now, since I’ve...whatever…” Gotten his heart broken? Maybe. It hangs on by a thread. He holds out hope that maybe one day he’ll slow down enough for it to be fixed. 

He grabs the plant mister and points it at the fern, a cruel look on his face.

“You two’ve been conspiring, you and Angel. Just trying to upset me.” 

He’ll blame it on anything but himself.

“ _ Too fast _ ,” he echoes, running his thin fingers over one of the soft, green leaves. “Just offered him a ride, is all. It’s not like I asked him to fucking.. _.marry _ me, or whatever. Not like I asked him to open that god damn thermos and splash me with it. Fuck’s sake…”

Once his garden has been sufficiently abused, he flops down in his desk chair, legs splayed wide and his back slumped.

“Should just _ leave _ ,” he suggests, to no one. “Change of scenery. If I stay here, I’ll…” He’ll just see him again. He’ll just be tempted to stop by that tacky bookshop every day, bringing gifts or sweet things to say, records to beg Aziraphale to listen to. His heart on a silver fucking platter. “Right. Where’s good?” He lazily spins his globe with one finger. “Where’s there...things happening? Somewhere I can go for...who knows. Until I don’t…” Until it doesn’t sting anymore. Until it’s easier. Until he figures out what the Hell Aziraphale was talking about.

He won’t even tell him he’s leaving. How’s that for too fast?

  1. _New York City_.



He’s come to like it here. Manhattan is a bit like Hell, a bit like home. Crowded, dangerous. Smells a bit, all the time. Everything is so big. The tall buildings surround him like a barricade. A moat. Nothing can get to him here. No longing love or stinging words. Traffic’s too awful. He’s settled in well, living in a cheap studio near St. Mark’s, utterly failing at keeping to himself. He is too much a social butterfly; even in just two years he’s become a local staple, a friend to most, a party enthusiast. He gets so much work done, as far as tempting goes. Everyone around him is certainly damned for eternity. Too busy chasing highs _ and  _ each other to bother doing much good. But he stays mostly on the outside of it all. He’s merely the architect of their debauchery, even though he is presented with opportunity upon opportunity to stray. He doesn’t explain to these women,  _ Oh, can’t, I’m a demon, not really my thing, but I highly recommend you seek it out somewhere else, that would look real good for me _ . He just accepts the joints they pass him, and flutters off to some other dark and dingy corner. 

He gives them another explanation.

“I’m spoken for,” he says, casually, quietly. Each and every time. He tells himself it is just a lie to keep his profile low, that there is no mysterious person to whom he’s devoted. But each time, when he tells that lie, he can only picture one person. Each time the sweetest of scenes: holding hands in a garden, sharing coffee in a place awash with cobblestone, sitting in his Bentley with Joan Baez playing at a reasonable volume…

“Lucky lady,” this particular party-goer says, downing her shot of gin and slamming the glass down on the nearby table. She’s annoyed. She’ll feel better soon, once the music starts again. 

They have parties in a wide, tall, echoing warehouse, somehow so open and yet with a million private little corners to hide and talk and kiss. Crowley tries to fill each of these secret little spaces with something evil. And although the machinations of Hell are strong here, there is also so much beauty. So much art, so much music. So much love, even if it’s fleeting and feverish and drunk. 

Even if he’s a little drunk himself, he knows he’s done a good job. The man who owns the building has given him unbridled access to the wine cellar, and Crowley’s lips and the bottom of his mustache are thickly stained with the delightful purple residue from a vintage Merlot. The air is filled with smoke and flashing lights, noise and chatter. Even a demon needs fresh air now and again.

He stumbles out the door and onto the street, half-full glass of wine in tow, knowing that this particular area of the city has proven to be quite lawless and lenient. He leans against the brick wall, tilting his head back, looking at the sky even though he knows he won’t see any of those precious stars he made. The lights of the city are far too bright. He adores that; at night, he can’t even properly  _ look _ at Heaven. There’ll be no reminder of what he left behind.

Here, he can go as fast as he damn well pleases.

The parties always go on until morning, and most of the time he doesn’t bother sobering up before walking home. Best way to blend in, really. There’s not a soul around him in their right mind. Bleary-eyed and dizzy, he saunters down the sidewalk, waving a vague  _ hello _ at people he recognizes from some event or another. 

He stops for a cup of coffee. The radio in the cafe is blasting something new.

_ Half of the time we're gone _

_ But we don't know where, _

_ And we don't know where _ .

He turns it down, which makes the lone employee grimace at him. The song continues on, and he leans in the doorway, waiting for his coffee, looking out to the small park across the street. In the morning light, it looks not of this earth. Bright and pastel, every leaf and bloom and the bronze of the bench glowing in the early sun. 

There is a man sitting on the bench, looking pointedly at a map. 

Crowley is handed his coffee, and he promptly lets it fall from his grasp and onto the tile floor. Even as the cafe worker begins to shout, he walks out of the doorway and into the street. Cars beep and drivers yell, and he holds out his hands to stop them from coming, wanders across the road, unapologetically drunk and staggering. The cafe worker turns the radio back up, and he can hear it as he crosses the median. _ Let your honesty shine, shine, shine now _ , and he tries to speak, tries to name this ethereal man sitting so calmly on the bench. 

He’s glowing as ever. His hair is a little longer than it was, parted neatly in the center, soft curls like a halo around his head. He wears a smart, tan jacket, his trousers rolled, pristine sneakers on his feet.

“Aziraphale…?” he chokes out, finally making it onto the other side of the street. There can be no mistaking it. There he is, soft and cherubic and  _ perfect _ and _ right the fuck in front of him _ . “Wh--”

He looks up from his map and folds it neatly.

“Crowley!” he chirps, standing, grinning, acting as if it is not the absolute sweetest devastation that he should be here. “It’s true what they said. You’re here! I’ve been wandering around for hours now, certain I’d never run into you.” 

“Wha--? You...came looking for me?” Crowley asks, blinking behind his sunglasses, falling askew. Aziraphale reaches out and fixes them properly. 

“Well you...you left without a word! I was...worried.”

“I’m...a fucking demon, Angel. I didn’t get  _ lost _ .”

“ _ How? _ ” Aziraphale asks, haughtily, holding up his map. They stare a moment, like a stand-off, until finally, divinely, they erupt into a familiar laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is so dramatic he’s like “I’m sad I SHOULD MOVE TO ANOTHER CONTINENT”
> 
> The songs from this chapter are Joan Baez's version of "Farewell, Angelina" (written by Bob Dylan), and "The Only Living Boy In New York" by Simon and Garfunkel. They're both songs that make me cry. I have more contemporary songs on an imaginary playlist in my head for them, too. Maybe I'll post a list next chapter. Thank you for reading!!!!


	2. Baby, you just make me mad.

  1. _London_.



Aziraphale has never felt an urge so strong as when he left that car, wanting to swing the door back open and sob out a million apologies for being so cruel and so vague. But he told himself before he even got in that he would ignore whatever foolish wanting he felt in his heart, that he would simply deliver the Holy Water and be done with it. Even if, sitting in the passenger’s seat, knowing that a light rain was beginning, knowing that their hands were so, so close, he felt as though it would be the perfect time to give up the act. To lean across the center console and damn himself for eternity. 

But he makes it out unscathed. He leaves the car with his cheeks flushed and his chest heavy, so full of guilt he wonders how he manages to walk so quickly away, down the street, toward his shop. His own words hurt him deeply, but moreover, it is Crowley’s stunned silence that wounds him. No snarky comeback, no cruel denial. He didn’t even ask him to get out of the car. He just...frowned, looking as if, for once, he was truly at a loss for words.

Aziraphale does not relish in hurting people. But what else was he to say?  _ Drive me around, maybe forever, and when we run out of gas we’ll walk _ . 

He unlocks the door to his shop and sighs, willing the lights to come up, and he closes the door behind him, noting how empty it all looks despite the towers of books. 

“No worry,” he assures himself. “He’ll come by soon for a chat and all will be normal.” Never scheduled or expected, but always welcome. 

So he waits a week. And then two weeks. And then a month, and he doesn’t even sense the slightest bit of demonic presence. He thinks of going after him, to his flat, knocking, bringing some sort of gift, but each time he finds himself on Crowley’s street he turns around and rushes home, mumbling to himself about how much of a fool he manages to be.

And before he can make up his mind to be angry at Crowley or at himself, a year has passed. No visits, no wine, no lunches in the park. It is as if he never existed.

He pretends not to miss him. He knows that, by all measures, he should not. He’s a demon. The sworn enemy. A rascal. Even if he is kind, even if he did stop a bomb from destroying the books he’d worked so hard to find. Even if his evil wiles did seem to soften whenever they were near one another…

“God... _ darn  _ it…” he mumbles to himself, looking out the musty window of his shop, his hands balled into fists. “Where’ve you gone to, Crowley?”

He decides to ask around, looking into all the little shady places Crowley used to go, talking nervously to all the nefarious characters he’d once chosen to associate with. It takes ages, but finally he stumbles upon one woman who may have an answer. It is almost as if he never wanted to be found…

“Said he was going t’ New York,” she tells him, blowing a thick puff of cigarette smoke in his face. He coughs and waves his hand. “Had t’ get away, he said. Somethin’ ‘bout London makin’ him depressed, or whatever.”

“Dep...ressed?”

She shrugs.

“Why? He owe you money or somethin’?” she asks him, grinning.

“Ah, no, Miss. Simply lost touch. New York, you said?”

  1. _New York_.



Everything here is so much newer and larger. He’s fairly sure he hates it, but he’s also fairly sure Crowley would adore it. The air is thick with sin and love. It is as if this place is perfectly at balance, a completely level plane between Heaven and Hell. As charming as it is clearly dangerous, Aziraphale walks through Manhattan with the same timid curiosity he always has. He is trying to find the place Crowley would most fit in. It’s so...loud here. Every car seems to be honking, and he turns his head each time, frightened and the least bit hopeful that it might be coming from a large, black Bentley. Of course, it never is.

He takes a map from a friendly, raving street performer, and he conjures up a few coins to toss into his slinking, dirty hat. He hears Crowley’s voice in his head, asking him if that is  _ really  _ the angelic thing to do, and if the man would spend his miraculous money on something evil.

“Shut _ up _ ,” he mumbles to himself, and is surprised when no one on the street pays him any mind.

Eventually he decides on a neighborhood. He sits in a small park, not knowing quite what to do but continue to study his map. He can feel a familiar presence encroaching, and he looks up, seeing a sight he has been unwillingly dreaming of for months.  _ That man _ , stumbling blindly across the road, slithering as ever. He’s wearing impossibly tight pants, a dark gray shirt tucked into them , and he has--

Oh Good Lord, is that a mustache?

Their meeting is a blur. He remembers not what he says nor does, until their laughter fades and they are left standing silent amidst the shimmering leaves and petals. 

“You look well, Angel,” Crowley slurs, a dreamy smile on his face.

“Oh, well, thank you…” He can hardly hide his giddiness. He had promised himself he would be calm, and already he has failed. “My dear, are you drunk? You look a mess.”

“Ah, yeah, had a, um…” Crowley gestures vaguely. “Friends of mine host parties.”

“Oh? So you’re working hard, then?”

Crowley grins, proud but grateful.

“Come, come on, you’ve got to see where I’ve been,” he says, lazily tossing an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder and leading him out of the park. 

“Oh, well I was hoping we could talk--”

“Time for that later. I’ve got to sober up, Angel.”

He allows himself to be guided, utterly powerless with that arm around him. Any odd glances they recieve are met with a teasing  _ hiss _ from Crowley, clearly intoxicated out of his mind. 

The flat is small and dim, but the ceilings are quite high. Wilting plants line the baseboard, and clothes lie about as if a whirlwind has been through.

“Oh, my…”

Crowley struggles out of his shoes and kicks them aside.

“Angel…” He stumbles a bit, sunglasses sliding down his nose. “I’m…” 

Aziraphale finds they are walking backwards, toward the wall. Crowley lays his clammy hands on either side of his face.

“Got to tell you something.”

Aziraphale gulps.

“Um, well, I think perhaps now is not a good time--”

“Got to tell you.”

“O...kay…”

He braces himself, wishing so much he didn’t look forward to hearing some sort of amorous confession. It would just cause more problems than it would solve…

“I’ve...grown a mustache, Angel.”

He exhales as if for the first time.

“I noticed.”

“D’you like it?”

“Um…”

“It’s very  _ in _ now.”

“Yes.”

“So d’you like it?”

Their faces are still very close. Aziraphale reaches up and gently wraps his fingers around Crowley’s wrists.

“Would it make a difference? If I didn’t?”

Crowley shrugs, seeming to implode, letting his face fall into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“No. Just wanted you t’like it.”

“It’s...it’s fine. I’ll get used to it.”

He swears he can feel him grin against his shoulder. Suddenly the room feels so much wider and emptier.

“So you’ll stay a while, Angel?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer right away. He really hadn’t come up with a plan yet. All he knew was that he had to find him, and see him. He had to touch him and maybe say he was sorry, or ask  _ him _ to apologize. He sighs, letting his arms surround Crowley’s back.

“Yes. Yes, sure. I’ll stay.”

Aziraphale guides him to the bed, helping him lay down, pressing a hand to his forehead to help him sober up. Crowley sleeps, sprawled out across the mattress, and Aziraphale sits with his back against the headboard for a while, trying desperately to stop his gleeful grinning.

After a while, he starts to tidy things up and water the wilting plants. He notices the record player, how it still spins, but the needle has fallen askew. Curious, he leans down to fix it, to place it gently down in the grooves. He’s startled by how utterly loud the music is when it suddenly begins.

_ I thought of you as everything  _

_ I had but couldn’t keep _ .

He sits on the floor, knees to his chest, hugging his legs like he’s a child. Now he’s here, he has no idea what to do but watch his dear demon sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cockblocked by facial hair insecurity: the aziraphale story
> 
> they're....so dumb......
> 
> the song this time is "pale blue eyes" by the velvet underground.
> 
> i'm writing this first thing in the morning and i haven't even had breakfast so i don't know what the gotdamn fuck i'm doing


	3. Gazing from my window to the streets below.

Once the world stops spinning, it’s usually time for it to begin again. But this afternoon, in this soft daylight, in these same clothes from the night before, Crowley just wants things to stay still for a while. In the corner, Aziraphale is looking through his record collection, no doubt searching for something, anything other than what he’d had in there before. What song had it been that rocked him to sleep? Oh right. The one that makes him think of Aziraphale, not that that narrows it down very much at all.

Despite the honking and the yelling from the street below, there is a peace here he can’t quite name. 

The record stops. Aziraphale lowers something new onto the turntable, and Crowley rolls over on top of the blankets to look at him.

“Afternoon,” he says, his throat dry.

Aziraphale seems to startle a bit, unceremoniously dropping the record onto the turntable. Crowley cannot help but laugh adoringly, and he tries so hard to stifle it.

“Afternoon,” Aziraphale echoes, gently placing the needle down on the record. After some brief scratching, it begins. 

_ When you're weary, feeling small _

_ When tears are in your eyes, I'll dry them all  _

“Sorry ‘bout this morning, Angel. Wasn’t in my right mind,” Crowley says, stretching, rolling out of the bed, rubbing his eyes as if he’s been asleep for one thousand years. 

“Oh, really, it was no trouble,” Aziraphale assures him. “I’d forgotten, really, how you are when you’re drunk.”

“N’how is that?”

His Angel smiles like he has a secret.

“Tea?” he asks, never failing to be as cruel as he is sweet.  _ You go too fast for me _ . It’s back, the echo. Two years of trying not to ask himself what it meant seem to burst within him.

“Tea,” he agrees, cracking his neck. He reaches for the hem of his shirt to pull it off, toss it into the vague direction of the laundry bin. It’s...neater, in here. His Angel has fixed it up, no doubt forgiving him for the shame of being so unkempt and uncaring. He opens the curtains wide. Another New York afternoon and all its joys. He leans against the window, forehead to the glass. He’ll be expected in just a matter of hours, at the warehouse. He’s been told time and time again that he’s allowed guests, but this particular guest…

The kettle whistles and he turns around, looking at Aziraphale, rifling through the cabinets of the kitchenette for some tea bags. He’s so dear, how gentle he is with the cheap but sturdy wood, how he seems to treat it just like any other kitchen even though it’s small and dingy. 

_ When you're down and out _

_ When you're on the street _

_ When evening falls so hard _

_ I will comfort you _

“There’s ah...a party tonight. Well, every night. If you’d like to go,” Crowley says, running a hand through his hair, shaking off the sleep.

“Oh, only if there are souls to save, dear,” Aziraphale jests, setting their teacups down on the window sill, admiring the view of the street alongside him.

“Hundreds,” Crowley insists, picking up his tea and holding it close to his bare chest. “Won’t you, though? Come with me?”

Aziraphale follows a yellow taxi with his gaze. A young woman raises her arm to flag it down, and gets ignored entirely. The utter sympathy on his Angel’s face makes Crowley ache inside.

“Of course,” he answers, finally.

The silence between them is palpable, during their tea. Crowley has so many questions to ask, so many that he’s been saving up, and so many that are brand new.  _ Why did you come find me? How long will you stay?  _ But he knows he moves too fast and expects too much. 

“Come on,” he says, tugging Aziraphale by the elbow. “Let’s get ready to go out, I’ve got so much to show you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s  _ New York _ , Angel. Sights and sounds galore. I...I have to share it with you.”

He swears he sees a smile twitch upon Aziraphale’s lips. He hides it behind a sip of his tea.

“Where do we begin?”

They change their clothes, keen on the fashion. It’s a bright afternoon, on the edge of every happy hour in every dive and cocktail lounge. Out on the street they walk, Aziraphale seeming so unused to the quick and desperate shuffle of New York. Crowley finds he must keep turning around to make sure he still follows. Maybe it’s not even necessary. Maybe he just wants to make sure he’s near and safe and hasn’t abandoned him.

That’s rich, to fear abandonment when  _ he’s _ the one who left. He slows his walking. He goes too fast.

They make their way to the subway, Crowley eager to take him all the way to the mythical Brooklyn. It’s a little slower there, a little smaller. The brick and brownstone will charm his Angel, he’s sure. He seems a bit nervous about the subway, and they side close, side-by-side on the little orange two-seater in a mostly abandoned train car. The swaying on the tracks makes them lean into one another, and away, and then closer again. It has been so long since he’s been so near to him. He snakes his arm around the back of the seat.

“It’s charming, really, even with all the ah...graffiti,” Aziraphale admits. “Where are we headed?”

“Brooklyn Bridge,” he answers, turning in his seat, finding that his hand falls to his Angel’s knee. “The view will astound you, I promise.”

There it is, that same little smile.

They get off at their stop and begin to cross the bridge. It shakes a little from the subway trains and the cars that cross, and they walk close together as if they are ever in any real danger.

“So, what d’you think?” Crowley asks, gently elbowing him in the arm.

“It really is quite beautiful, Crowley. I can see why you’ve...chosen to go here. It is very  _ you _ .”

And again, as it so often goes, Crowley can’t help but wonder just what he means by that. Is it the danger? The bustling crowds? The opportunities for sin? Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the devastatingly gorgeous view of the river and the skyline beyond. Maybe it’s the cool breeze and the promise of a good time. They lean on the railing, smiling out across the vista.

“I’m...sorry, Angel,” Crowley says, biting the insides of his cheeks.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, doesn’t ask him what for. He simply sidles closer to him, laying his head upon his stark and skinny shoulder. A demon ought to never feel so absolved, but the overwhelming feeling of forgiveness seems to elevate him closer, back to heaven from where he fell. He tilts his head as well, settling it atop Aziraphale’s soft hair. They stay for an hour or so, watching the sky change color, exchanging no words. And finally, when he can’t stand the silence anymore, Crowley ruins it with something mundane.

“Fancy a drink? Know a good little place,” he posits, lifting his head, unable to help but run a hand down Aziraphale’s arm.

“What about your party?” 

“I’m always fashionably late, Angel.”

See? Hasn’t he gotten better? Hasn’t he slowed down enough for his Angel to catch up? They can cross the bridge as slow as they please, even if it just to stretch out the time in which they’re close to one another. The promise of a generous glass of wine does calm his nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song this time was "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel.
> 
> Some other, more contemporary songs that remind me of them:
> 
> "Get In My Car" by BRONCHO (my fave band at the moment)
> 
> "Be My Angel" by Mazzy Star
> 
> "I Feel Extra-Natural" by LVL UP (there's also a song called "Annie's a Witch" which makes me think of Anathema and Newt)
> 
> "River" by Akron/Family
> 
> And a bunch of others that aren't occurring to me at the moment.
> 
> Anyyyyyway thanks so much for all the positive feedback! These two are so sweet and honestly it's inspiring a lot of my other, non-fandom work. I feel like a proper writer again after having been in a slump for a few months.


	4. I Think We're Alone Now

It’s a run-down little place. Heavy, dark curtains and strings of dim fair lights along the picture board. The walls are painted a deep forest green, littered with scratches and stains. He imagines it’s a bit how Hell looks, which must be why Crowley is so cheerily greeted by the bartender, a tall woman in head-to-toe floral, who nods toward an empty table.

“Usual, for me and my friend here,” he says, placing a hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back to guide him to the corner. Above the booth there are signed pictures of old Hollywood ladies in silky gowns.

The bartender brings them a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“Your _ usual  _ is an entire bottle of wine?” Aziraphale asks, though he makes no protest as his glass is filled.

Crowley grins and shrugs as he fills his own glass. Damn him, damn him more than he has already been damned, for all that sweet charm. Even with that mustache. Even after two years of radio silence and the worry that things were truly over between them, still Aziraphale feels his heart sing like a choir when Crowley smiles.

“So, Angel,” he says, leaning back against the faux leather and crossing one leg over the other. “Figure we start here, get a good buzz on, hop back on the subway, grab a bite if you want, then head to the warehouse.”

“Are you certain I’ll be welcome there?” Aziraphale asks, taking a sip of his wine. It’s delightful and dark. “From the sound of it it’s not the sort of crowd that--”

“They’ll like you because I do, and they like  _ me _ .”

“You do?”

“What?”

“Like me?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Angel.”

An impossible feat, clearly.

They share their bottle and some hearty laughter, recalling all the mishaps and situations they’ve managed to get themselves in, recounting what they’ve each been up to. Crowley’s life in New York sounds like some sort of joyful chaos. Revelry, et cetera. Aziraphale, meanwhile, hadn’t been doing much of anything save for pity himself.

The more he drinks, the more he leans his chin in his hand, the closer they seem to sit in their private little booth, the quieter the rest of the bar becomes. It is as it’s always sort of been: they are their own little world with their own little rules. After a few glasses of wine, it’s much easier to pretend that they exist outside of reality. There is no Heaven and no Hell, there is just a seedy bar and a creaking booth and their hands, but inches away from each other on the table. He can pretend that no one stares. 

They head back to the subway station, linking arms, feeling jolly. On the platform they laugh all the more, giddy in the beginning of their dizziness, clinging to one another as if they’ll fall upon the tracks if they let go.

It is a Saturday night, and they are hardly the most rowdy people waiting for the 4. Around them are young people, shouting and stumbling. Couples hiding on benches and against the walls, but a hair’s width away from making love. There is music echoing down the halls, there are people handing out religious texts and giving uncalled for sermons. Chaos. Fear. Love. There is nothing quite so overwhelming as this place. 

The train arrives, and it’s packed with people heading out of Brooklyn. They have no choice but to stand, gripping the same sticky pole, so close to one another, touching with every rocking of the train. Chest-to-chest. Toe-to-toe. Aziraphale keeps his head tilted up, looking at Crowley expectantly. But what does he expect? What in the name of God can they do from here? Maybe he can summon all his power and make certain that this train ride never ends. They never have to leave and face the cold air of reality. They can stay standing huddled together, laughing quietly at nothing, making eyes and linking their little fingers together as they grip the pole, knowing people can see, not caring what they have to say about it.

But they must leave the garden. They must leave the 4 train and head to the warehouse. 

It’s not a far walk, but even the few blocks they travel have Aziraphale wishing for another drink. It will numb his fear and abate his smiling. It will dispel the magic they’ve created between them this evening, and bring him closer to oblivion, where he will be unconscious and incapable of love.

It would take an entire wine cellar, he knows. No amount of poison can make him stray from this unfortunate path. It was over the moment they met, his fealty to Heaven. It only took him a few millennia to figure it out.

But still, when they’re allowed into the building, he eagerly takes whatever bright cocktail is handed to him, nodding in thanks.

It is an impossibly large room, shaking with loud music and vibrant with sin. The _ things _ these people wear! Or rather,  _ not  _ wear...Aziraphale stays glued close to Crowley, who has already begun to mingle, spreading his arms wide to greet his friends.

“This is ah...Angel, told you ‘bout him,” he says, bidding a strange, gaunt, bespectacled woman to shake his hand.

“How do you do?” Aziraphale asks. She cackles.

“You didn’t tell me he was so  _ polite _ , Anthony!” She pokes Aziraphale in the chest. “Keep this one out of trouble, Angel. He gets a little wild if left unsupervised.”

She disappears into the fray and Crowley halfheartedly sneers after her.

“Wild?” Aziraphale asks with a raise of his brow.

“Not like  _ that, _ Angel, come on.”

“I implied nothing! And you...you talk about me? With these people?”

“ _ ‘These people’ _ are really quite fun if you give them a chance, and not just because of all the drugs. N’ yeah, of course I talk about you.”

They must shout to be heard over the music. It blares from every direction, gigantic speakers mounted to the walls and floors.

“Even...even after what happened?”

“What do you mean  _ ‘what happened?’ _ ” Crowley asks.

“After I...after you left because I was so…”

“So what?”

A beat, and the brief respite is devastating.

“I was so cruel to you, Crowley.”

Even as the music stays boisterous and loud, a soft quiet falls around them. Their own little world.

“Angel--” Crowley begins, still shouting, and then he quiets himself, leaning closer to speak softly into Aziraphale’s ear. “Just because I left it doesn’t mean I stopped--” He sighs against Aziraphale’s neck. 

He shivers. It feels so lewd, even if it isn’t. A room full of people, all performing acts much more debaucherous than this, and yet Aziraphale feels utterly  _ vulgar _ . The music changes to something a little slower and easier, and they fall away from one another a little. Aziraphale takes a sip of his drink.

“Stopped what?” he dares to ask, bolder with another ounce of liquor in him. Crowley stares, his eyes still stinging him behind those sunglasses.

  
  


_ My, my such a sweet thing  _

_ I wanna do everything  _

_ What a beautiful feeling _ .

He gives him no answer. Now who is the cruel one? All Crowley does is take him by the hand and lead him away, into a quiet place filled with thick smoke and the distinct smell of booze. They tumble into a seat together and are promptly handed another round of drinks.

“They really do like you here, Crowley,” Aziraphale notes, despising that it sounds like he’s pouting. His jealousy is stupid, childish. He has no right.

“Just...filling a void,” he mumbles, barely audible over the rest of the party.

“There he is!” a man yells, approaching them, his arms spread and his grin wide. He’s a showman, clearly, dressed in furs. “Anthony, who on Earth is this little pet you’ve brought? He’s adorable! Fluffy like a sheep!”

“Pet?” Aziraphale asks, turning to look at Crowley, looking indignant and wishing he didn’t feel the least bit of pride.

“You’re drunk,” Crowley scolds the man. “And half out your mind on ‘ludes. Go have a lie down.”

He does not. He instead shimmies himself onto the bench beside Aziraphale.

“This one,” he says, pointing to Crowley. “We can’t quite figure him out. What’s his deal, stranger?”

“His...deal?” Aziraphale stammers, leaning away, leaning into Crowley. “Um…”

The man grins. He seems well-meaning, even if he’s obliterated on who knows what. Aziraphale knows he really oughtn’t think that.

“The other week, Anthony got so drunk he just wouldn’t shut up…”

“Please--” Crowley begs, desperate and whining.

“...about this person who broke his heart!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, sparing a quick glance toward Crowley, who is burying his head in his hands.

“What was it you said, Anthony?”

He grumbles into the bends in his elbows, laying his head on the table.

“Oh, right, he was so dramatic about it, weren’t you? Said he’s loved someone for thousands of years and he thought he could get away from it, and I told him, I said, Anthony, there’s no getting away from something like that! And this guy, oh my god, he sounded so sweet! I told him, Anthony, you’re an idiot! And he was like, I know!”

He goes on talking, recounting every detail of the story, but it all falls into the background as Aziraphale places an arm on Crowley’s shoulder, begging him to sit upright and look at him. Eventually he does raise his head, sunglasses and hair all askew, distinct terror making his lips tremble.

“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale reaches out and fixes the mess in Crowley’s hair. Still their new friend yammers on behind them, but again, the world becomes small. This song, he will remember its every note as it struggles to break through the sound of the ringing in his ears.

_ Over and over… _

As if pushed by a merciless wave, he leans forward, tossing his arms around Crowley’s neck. A rough and sloppy embrace, but he finds he cannot care. He’s drunk, he’s anxious, he’s surrounded by strangers but the world is just him and one other man.

“Oh! My!” their friend squeaks, promptly squirming off the bench and back into the crowd.

“Angel--?” Crowley says, holding him by the ribcage, his sunglasses falling down his nose. That perfect nose. 

“I’ve been so stupid,” he laments.

“Well--”

“Get me another drink.”

“What!?”

“I need another drink, Crowley. I’m not brave enough yet.”

“Brave enough for what?” Crowley asks, keeping one arm on him, lifting the other to snap and beckon a cocktail waitress. Aziraphale grabs a glass off her tray and tosses it back, chugging it like a man parched, as Crowley looks on with his mouth hanging open. Once the drink it finished, Aziraphale breathes.

It is something humans do, something they invented when they ran out of words to say how they felt. When there seemed no other recourse after hours of whispering sweet nothings but to press their lips together as if only by touch could they express their love. Desperate, clinging, he kisses him.  _ Over and over _ . Mostly ignored in favor of other temptations, they fall slowly onto the bench, their heads spinning too fast to bother to stop and ask just what the Hell they think they’re doing.

Finally, they stop to breath. He can see the yellow glow of Crowley’s eyes. He’s missed it so…

“...let’s get out of here,” Crowley says.

“Oh--”

“Not for--  _ that. _ I mean, unless you want to. I’ve never really...well, it’s not something I--”

Aziraphale shuts him up for a few more minutes.

“Walk me home to your place,” he says after a while. They sit up, still clinging, dizzy in a dream, and then they stumble out through the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for those long, romantic, increasingly drunken nights where you just allow yourself to get so giddy and carried away. These two deserve a date like that, where you just shamelessly fall in love and hang on one another desperately, even when everyone around you is like "oh good god" and you're like "fuck you"
> 
> Also the subway is romantic for some reason. I think that part might be my favorite so far.
> 
> The song this time was "Crimson and Clover" by Tommy James and the Shondells.
> 
> I have more planned for this but hhhhkjfhd this chapter made me happy. just imagine me in the background at that party, cheering


	5. I am tired, I am weary, I could sleep for a thousand years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild cw for homophobia

The fresh air of the street does very little to sober them up, but Crowley’s glad of it. If the world ever stops spinning, they might both have to slow down. They might have to let go of one another’s hands, and right now, the very thought of that is devastating. 

They meander down the sidewalk, giggling and speaking loving nonsense, talking of anything except for what they ought to. They ought to take a moment to worry. They go too fast, and for once, Aziraphale says nothing about it.

“Crowley…”

There it is. The denial. The culmination of the anxious heartache he’s been carrying for two years.

“Angel?”

They stop walking, and Crowley leans his back against a brick wall. The street is largely empty, oddly desolate. Everyone must be indoors, getting drunk, doing nothing that could ever be as sweet as this. He pities them all.

Aziraphale grabs the collar of Crowley’s jacket and leans into him, pushing him farther into the wall.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” he says, tearful and low.

“Angel—“

“I waited two years to find you,” he laments, running fingers down Crowley’s chest. He fumbles with the fabric of his shirt, like a nervous habit. “I feel like a bad...whatever it is that I am. To you.”

“I wouldn’t know what to call it. It’s—“

“Ineffable?”

“Shut  _ up _ .”

They sigh with gleeful laughter, and Aziraphale rises on the balls of his feet for a needy kiss. Crowley holds either side of his face as if it is indeed the most delicate and precious thing. A streetlight flickers above their heads. They are as one of those unapologetic, amorous couples on a subway platform, and they, for the moment, think little of it. They are not men or anything that can be named. They are not of this Earth, and right now, it feels as though they aren’t even two separate things. Lovers, or one lover, inseparable. The word, the mere thought of the word, makes Crowley all the more drunk. He smiles into their feverish love.

“Hey!” a stranger shouts, farther up the block. They look to him, still pressed close, breathless and unkempt. 

“No one wants to see that shit!”

Aziraphale lets his hands fall from Crowley’s neck, and Crowley gives him a look. Confusion, disapproval. The man strides closer, rubbing one fist in his open hand. He goes on yelling, words and accusations and cruelties that even a demon wouldn’t recommend. 

“Really, fellow, you—“ Aziraphale tries to calm him, holding out a hand to keep him at arm’s length.

“Angel.” Crowley places a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and bids him to back down. He pulls off his sunglasses and folds them up, putting them calmly in his pocket.

“Crowley—“

“What in the  _ fuck _ is wrong with you freaks?” the stranger pleads, though he doesn’t shrink from the sight. He’s drunk and red in the face, though something tells Crowley he’s just like this, even sober. 

“You going to hit me?” Crowley asks him, in all his demonic magic seeming to tower over the man even if their heights aren’t that disparate. The man starts to back up, and Crowley follows. 

“I don’t know how things are in England or wherever you  _ fruitcakes _ are from, but here, we—“

“What?” Crowley asks, calm, hearing Aziraphale’s gentle protest in the background but ignoring it entirely. “What is it you  _ do? _ ”

“We—“

Crowley grabs him roughly by the collar, stares through him with his yellow eyes, pupils like slits, and growls a threat.

“You get the fuck out of here or you face the literal wrath of hell.”

The man stares a moment, and then snorts, and then laughs.

“You fuckin’ kidding me?  _ Pansy _ like you with your tight pants and your—“

And just like that, he’s on the ground, a swift crack making the blood gush from his nose.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouts, shuffling close. “What are you thinking!?”

The man groans on the ground, holding his face, his hands covered in blood. Aziraphale bends down, gently tearing his hands away from his face, inspecting the damage. Crowley wipes the blood off his hand on the sleeve of his jacket. That was brand new…

“I’m sorry, young man, my friend—“

“Don’t apologize to him, Angel, he—“

Aziraphale gives him a stern, disappointed look, which promptly shuts him up. He’s always so slavish to him…

Crowley watches with a sneer as Aziraphale heals the man’s nose, and he folds his arms across his chest, standing contrapposto in protest. A few men round the corner, and are immediately incensed at the sight of the man laying on the ground. No doubt a friend of theirs.

“Hey!” one of them shouts, starting into a sloppy run in their direction. Crowley grabs Aziraphale by the arm and pulls him up, urging him to run away.

Together they run, silent save for their heavy breathing, heading swiftly in the vague direction of Crowley’s flat. Crowley fumes with bruised dignity; how could he heal that man? How could he make him feel like a brutish fool? But still, at the badness, the childish magic of it all, he finds he cannot help but laugh. All the way to his flat, all the way up the stairs, gripping hard onto Aziraphale’s hand until they finally make it inside. He sighs, still laughing, leaning against the door.

“What on Earth is so funny, Crowley?”

“You saw the look on his face, Angel, he—“

“You could have  _ killed _ him.”

“Oh, come on—“

“He’s just a human, Crowley. They know not what they do.”

“Are you kidding?” Crowley pushes off of the door and walks toward Aziraphale, who wrings his hands, his guard decidedly up. “He knew exactly what he was doing, Angel. He got what he deserved. Isn’t that your thing?  _ Divine retribution _ ?” Still drunk, his voice is snide and hissing.

“Still—“

“And did you have to  _ help  _ him? Should have just let him have a broken nose!”

“I’m an  _ angel,  _ Crowley. I’d not be doing a very good job if I had just left him.”

“You’re already  _ doing _ a terrible job, Aziraphale!” he says, exasperated and desperate. He gets close, placing his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Kissing a demon? Why not just go all in?”

“Crowley, I—“

“We’re not different.”

“Yes. Yes we are! I’m an angel…” He backs away, sheepish and shrinking. “I...I cannot stand idly by while you commit acts of violence.”

“Well…” Crowley sighs, backing down, letting his arms fall to his sides. “I’m a demon, Angel. I do bad things. If you...if you want this—“ he motions between the two of them, “—then that’s what you get. I could be worse, Aziraphale. Much worse. But I hold back, and I try to be a little bit better, and do you know why?”

Aziraphale looks to the floor, and then back at Crowley, and then back at the floor. He shakes his head.

“For  _ you,  _ idiot. I do better so that you don’t hate me like you’re supposed to.”

The sirens blare in the street. There is so much shouting. It’s suddenly very cold in the flat, darker somehow than it ought to be.

“Well then…” Aziraphale mutters. “Isn’t that the way it is? I’m...supposed to hate you. That’s the way it is. Nothing we can really do.”

“Angel…”

“You’ve got that much correct, Crowley. That’s what I am, and you are what you are…”

He stays only for a moment, as if waiting to change his mind, but it never comes. Without another word, Aziraphale swiftly walks past Crowley and out the door. It slams as if driven by the wind.

Crowley sniffs, but does not cry. He kicks off his shoes, kicks around anything that lays in the space between him and his record player. Still drunk, sloppily, he puts something on that will drown him.

_ And when you kiss _

_ It's something new _

_ But did you ever call my name _

_ Just by mistake? _

_ I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do _

_ So I'll just write some love to you _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (meme of aaron paul screaming)
> 
> Sorry! The song this time is “Letter to Hermione” just like the title of the fic. Good way to cry if you want!
> 
> Follow me on twitter (listed below) to yell at me about this and other things! I’ll update as soon as possible.


	6. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this is just Aziraphale being emo,

His love does go too fast and this city is far too big. No matter how many blocks Aziraphale storms over, he will never escape. It’s foolish to walk, he knows, but the chill in the air will keep him from crying. So he keeps striding, street after street, to the Brooklyn Bridge, keeping his head down so he doesn’t look out at that beautiful view they shared just hours before.

Like everything with Crowley, it happened in a whirlwind. He’s sober now, walking it off, mumbling to himself a million gentle curses. The irony is not lost on him, that this time he is the one running away. But what else is there that he can do? Crowley is wrong, surely. They’re not the same, and there is no  _ them _ over which he must compromise. Never was. He was but a millennia’s temptation, and he’s made it out with his morals intact. He faltered only once. He kissed him only one evening. He will deny that it was more divine than any act of God he’s ever witnessed. He will deny that he feels something akin to mortal pain, worsening the farther he gets from St. Mark’s. He should return to England. He should return to Heaven. He should give up his body so that he never has to feel anything like  _ that _ ever again.

“You...vile thing…” he says, his hands balled in fists. He struggles to be cruel, for he cannot be more cruel than he was on that evening, two years ago, when he began this long, heartbreaking descent into their oblivion. He doomed them. There was never any way for them to be together for more than a moment’s dalliance. But  _ oh, _ what ecstasy it was. Finally he understands why men sin often and with such enthusiasm. Maybe it’s a trap. Crowley means to drag him down to Hell.

They could be together forever, down there, at least. 

He finds himself in a large park, all concrete, ornate with an archway and bronze sculptures. He feels very small. The park is rife with people drinking, laughing, singing. There is a woman with a guitar standing beneath a large stone awning, singing so beautifully and clearly Aziraphale cannot help but treat it like a holy hymn.

_ He says our love cannot be real _

_ He cannot hear the chapel's pealing silver bells _

_ But you know it's hard to tell _

_ When you're in the spell if it's wrong or if it's real _

_ But you're bound to lose _

_ If you let the blues get you scared to feel _

_ And I feel like I'm just being born _

_ Like a shiny light breaking in a storm _

_ There are so many reasons why I love him _

He cries like they do in movies. A single tear from his glistening eyes, glowing red with pain and sorrow, his mouth snapped shut, threatening to wail if he should let it open. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking left and right, and for what, he isn’t sure. Certainly he won’t see Crowley, sauntering through the crowd after him. He’s missed that chance. He’s hurt him again. And this time,  _ oh,  _ he was just being noble. Violent for Aziraphale’s sake, like an amorous knight obsessed in love. How it must have stung him, to see Aziraphale undo his deeds. To be met with scorn, brought down to the lowest low of their long lives when they had just been reaching so high, together, in the evening...He takes a shaky breath and sits down on the nearest bench, bending forward, head in his hands. Shouldn’t he just run away? Run away, and be found, and fall in love with him again, and mess it up, and let the cycle repeat until the universe ceases to exist?

He sits up and looks to the statues on the arch. No, he can stay here, in this spot, until he’s made of bronze and he’s permanent and doesn’t have to feel anything. So often angels are depicted in stone. He wishes so much that he was made of tougher stuff, like marble. 

She changes her song, the lady beneath the awning.

_ Leave your flowers at my door _

_ I'll leave them for the one who waits behind. _

_ Far away my lover sings a lonely song _

_ And calls me to his side. _

_ When the song of lonely love _

_ Invites me on I must go to his side. _

_ Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye my love goodbye. _

  
  


He lets out a pathetic sob. Is God testing him? And to what end? Is She trying to damn him to Hell, pulling him down by way of Crowley’s wiles and his sweet, sweet love? If so, She is crueler than he’s ever thought possible. She plans for everything, and She has planned for him to be irrevocably and terribly in love with sin incarnate.

But really, is he so evil? All the words to all the songs he loves are so kind. His kisses are soft and his harsh eyes can be so comforting. He was an angel, too. Was his only misstep being too full of love? 

There are too many questions. Those are what damn you to an eternity in Hell. Aziraphale wonders if it could truly be worse than walking out Crowley’s door.

The lady puts her guitar back in its case, mutters a thank-you to onlookers for the coins they’ve tossed in her hat. She walks past Aziraphale, and looks at him with such pity, he does indeed wish he could burst into flames.

“Why so glum?” she asks, inviting herself to sit down.

“...what is this place called?” he asks, unwilling to discuss why his face is stained with tears.

“Oh, you’re not from here, are you? It’s called Grand Army Plaza. Over there’s the library,” she tells him, pointing through the archway.

“You have a lovely voice, Miss. It’s...angelic.”

“Thank you, stranger,” she says. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He’s quiet for a long time. She pulls a flask out of her bag and takes a sip, and doesn’t offer him any of it.

“The...the love of my life is someone I can’t be with,” he says finally, in a single, rushed breath.

“That’s bullshit, and everyone knows it,” she scolds, leaning back on the bench.

“I beg your pardon?”

She swallows hard. Did he not know better, he could swear she was an apparition. 

“If you really love someone, you don’t give a fuck.”

“It’s not that simple—“

She snorts.

“Yes it is. You’re just making excuses. You’re afraid of something.”

She finishes her flask and stuffs it back into her bag.

“Get over yourself, Romeo,” she says with a grin, standing up, hoisting her guitar case onto her back. She turns away. “No use either of you drinking poison.”

She disappears into the still-meandering crowd. 

He remembers seeing  _ Romeo and Juliet _ . Crowley had stood beside him despite his disdain for tragedies. He remembers crying. He remembers Crowley taking him aside at the end, embracing him in the wings of the theater, waiting for him to stop, and not chiding him even once.  _ Next time he’s doing a fun one, Angel. I’ll pay him if I have to.  _ And the next performance was Twelfth Night. It was a delight, at the end, when everyone ends up happy and together and in love.

“I’m an idiot,” he says, into the void of the evening. “Crowley…” He says his name like an elegy. He looks back in the vague direction of the Brooklyn Bridge. Dare he cross that threshold once again? Perhaps Crowley’s anger and hurt will repel him. But Aziraphale, at that moment, feels as though he is a glutton for punishment. He stands, walks with purpose, and continues to weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs this time were “Willy” by Joni Mitchell and “Goodbye” by Mary Hopkin, both of which I highly recommend. I’m sorry this took an angsty turn but it will be rewarding in the end lol


	7. Just what the truth is, I can’t say anymore

Crowley lays on his hardwood floor, surrounded by further empty bottles. He sings at the spinning ceiling, along with the record that plays so softly.

_ Gazing at people, some hand in hand _

_ Just what I'm going through they can't understand _

_ Some try to tell me, thoughts they cannot defend _

_ Just what you want to be, you will be in the end _

It is so, so stupid. To be heartbroken, again, by the same person, who happens to be your mortal enemy. But was he ever? From the moment Crowley met him, his eyes were kind. And he’s met enough angels to know that not all of them are kind. No, Aziraphale was special and dear from the start. His most beloved fool. His darling adversary. And he’s gone again. And this time, Crowley has nowhere to run. He has a feeling Aziraphale will just go back to England and leave him here to waste away in revelry and sin. Isn’t that the right thing to do? He can’t be saved. He doesn’t want to be saved. He just wants Aziraphale, and more to drink. He rolls over, grabbing for another bottle of wine. He sees his face reflected in the glass, gaunt and tired. Pathetic and tear-stained.

“Stupid…” Himself, his Angel, Heaven and Hell. Fuck the lot of them. He can go anywhere in the whole wide universe, can’t he? “They’ve only  _ just _ landed on the moon, the idiots…” He pulls the cork out of the bottle with some demonic trick, and tosses it across the room. It hits the door, and for one hopeful second, he hopes to see Aziraphale standing there, picking it up. Fixing his mess. Saving him from himself. 

Hopelessness is something he ought to like. The utter despair and sloth of not knowing what to do because there is nothing left to do that can possibly make you happy.  _ Happiness _ is not something he should like. He shouldn’t even know what it feels like. But it feels like so many things. It feels like sharing a private booth in a dive bar, or going for oysters in Rome, or standing side by side during the premier of  _ Twelfth Night _ . It feels like a desperate kiss in the cool evening air, pressed against a dirty brick wall. It’s the nausea of the subway. It’s the brief moment before it all fell apart before his eyes.

He’s crying again. It’s unbefitting his position. He scrambles to the bed, pulling himself up, sitting and trying to stop himself from being dizzy. He ought to sober up, try and think straight. Maybe it will all seem like nothing, once his head’s clear…

With great effort, he purges the alcohol from his blood, groaning from the sudden clarity and the dry taste in his mouth. He gets up to look out the window, suffering the unfortunate hope that he’ll see him out there, holding flowers, throwing rocks at his window. But there is no one of note, just strangers, faceless and strange.

A coward, he doesn’t go looking for him. He considers it retribution, even if it pains him to be so cruel toward his Angel. Recompense for how Aziraphale waited  _ two years _ to come find him.  _ See how you like it _ . But it doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel right. It just feels quiet and sad and lonesome, for days, until he manages to drag himself back to the warehouse. He’s shaved his mustache, and he’s combed his hair for the first time in days. He’s dressed finely, gray jeans, an ironic t-shirt that reads “war is bad for children and other living things,” and a smart leather jacket. He looks like a man who functions. He looks like a man who sees the god damned point in anything. 

He’s met with applause when he arrives, and he gives his friends a humble wave. His friend, the one who utterly  _ outed  _ him, strides up and throws his arms around his shoulders.

“Anthony! Where have you been? Where’s your...beau?”

Crowley shrugs him off.

“Oh...I see. I’ll get you a stiff drink.”

“Appreciate it.”

He finds a bright corner to sit in. The darker ones are too romantic. He takes his cocktail with a grateful bow of his head. Up on the stage, a willowy young woman is tuning a guitar.

“Sorry I haven’t got anything original for you,” she says into the mic. “Covers will have to do. I’ve had this one song on my mind a couple days.” She idly strums a chord. “I met a man in Grand Army Plaza, and he was ready to give up on love. Man, that really bummed me out.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, if you’re out there, Grand Army Plaza guy, I hope you’ve grown a pair. This one’s by Joni.”

Crowley’s met her, Joni. He’d swear she was an angel if she wasn’t so sweet. He’d heard her sing about Chelsea back when he was staying there, and she was the only one who could quite get it right. Aziraphale would have liked her. They’re both soft… 

He shakes his head, trying to will away the thoughts of him. He tries to listen to the song.

_ Moons and Junes and ferris wheels _

_ The dizzy dancing way you feel _

_ As every fairy tale comes real _

_ I've looked at love that way _

_ But now it's just another show _

_ You leave 'em laughing when you go _

_ And if you care, don't let them know _

_ Don't give yourself away _

He shuts his eyes. Fuck this Grand Army Plaza man. He downs his drink and takes a look around, admiring the bright paintings being made, the glowing fashion and the smiling faces. All of these people are damned. All of them are brilliant. Hell’s certainly the place to be. 

_ Tears and fears and feeling proud, _

_ To say "I love you" right out loud _

He never did, did he? He should be thankful. It’s the kind of thing you can’t take back, saying _ I love you.  _ Never mind that it’s something he shouldn’t even be capable of. That’s Heaven for you, always trying to make things wrong and pretend it’s right. The young woman finishes the song and thanks the crowd, tells them she’ll take a quick break. Crowley grabs another drink, and finds that she’s decided to accompany him back to his seat.

“Evening,” she coos.

“Wrong tree, sweetheart,” he says, casual and slurring, muffled by the rim of his glass. She laughs.

“Presumptuous,” she says, bringing a flask out of her bag. “But thanks for being straightforward.”

Tipsy, he cannot help but be a contrarian.

“This man you met, are you sure it’s good advice? Not t’give up?”

“Of course. I could tell he was really in love.”

“And that matters?”

“Duh. What’s your issue, man?” Though she chides him, she grins. “Who hurt you?”

He opens his mouth as if to speak, to spill everything to this complete stranger, unloading millennia of truth on someone who didn’t ask.

“Don’t worry about it. Good set tonight,” he says, and hands her two dollars as a tip and money for a drink. 

“Find some love, man! Thanks for the money!”

Fucking hippies. He walks away with a careless wave. 

He gets drunk. He smokes some pot, seeing how he has perfected the French inhale in the shining art made of shards from a mirror. Objectively, by all measures, he’s a vision of sex and want. People hang on him, but he feels nothing. The only libidinal image he can conjure is his Angel, perfect and sweet, but so, so cruel. He gets high. Too high. The kind where your limbs feel separate from your body and every sound you hear seems to start inside your own head. 

He sleeps at the warehouse. His home is too much a reminder of his most recent heartbreak. Just like England. He’ll run out of places eventually. He’ll have no choice but to live among the stars, alone, and free. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs this time are “Nights in White Satin” by The Moody Blues and “Both Sides, Now” by Joni Mitchell.
> 
> This was going to be a shorter work but I guess I’m stretching it out more than I’d planned? I hope you’re enjoying it!


	8. Sinking in the quicksand of my thought

Aziraphale has never before understood the human need for sleep. His body doesn’t feel tired, as he walks and walks and walks across the bridge and through the neighborhoods and past the strangers until morning. But his mind is exhausted with the repetition of regret.  _ No, no, no, it was just an excuse it was only an excuse not to love you and when you hurt that man I know you only did it for me and I knew it was wrong to feel so loved _ — He just wishes he could turn it off for a while, think of anything else.

His wandering brings him back to St. Mark’s, eventually. From the street he can see Crowley’s wide window, curtains spread. He stands on the sidewalk, staring up through the glass, waiting for him to appear. Shaggy and sleepy, with a cup of tea. Perfection itself. But he never shows. Each shadow that passes by the window gives Aziraphale a flicker of hope, but they all evaporate into nothing. He waits a while, drawing very little attention even as the morning crowds shuffle past, occasionally knocking into him, but he stands stock-still, glued to the pavement.

He finds a nice little hotel, independently run by a small old woman with shaking, wrinkled hands, her skin like tissue paper. Every day he wakes and has his tea across the street from Crowley’s flat, trying not to stare holes through the window and into the front stoop, waiting for him to come home like a dog waits for its master. He feels pathetic, and after a while, when it’s been too long, he can feel the familiar pain of knowing that he’s too late and that there is no hope. 

But he knows Crowley to be a creature of habit. He always slithers back to the places he comes from. Hell and England, maybe, one day. But for now, his flat on St. Mark’s. Aziraphale tries to write him a letter, draft after draft, all day, over so many cups of tea his penmanship becomes nigh illegible.

_ Crowley,  _

_ You astound me at every turn. I adore you more than I can express, but isn’t that against the laws of the universe? _

No, that won’t do. Not at all.

_ Crowley, _

_ Darling, I’m going back to England. The books won’t sell themselves. _

That’s even worse.

_ I will return to my old life and I will try to hate you. _

Well, there’s no use in lying.

_ That night when I kissed you was what Heaven is supposed to feel like but doesn’t. Heaven is Hell because it prevents me from being with you, my dear. Would that I were mortal. _

He crumpled them all up and throws them all in the trash. None of it will do, none of it quite gets it right. Eventually, he spreads out one piece of satationary, neat and scented, and he distills what he means to say.

_ Forgive me. _

He folds the paper up into a little bird shape. He learned origami years ago, and finally he has trained his fingers to be precise enough. He knows that Crowley will unfold it with care, at least, even if he ends up tearing it to shreds after. It matters not. He’ll have said what he needed to say.

No one pays him any mind, so he holds the little crane in his palm and wills it to rise, to glide, divinely through the air, all the way up to Crowley’s window. Romeo indeed. The glass gives way to his angelic will, and he loses sight of the note. He will find it. Maybe not today or the next day, but he will find it. Someone has to care for the plants.

  1. _London._



“It’s a lovely edition,” he tells his young customer, gently running a hand down the cover of the book. “There are annotations from an actor. He played Viola in a very old production.”

The young man carefully takes the copy of  _ Twelfth Night _ in his arms. Aziraphale is loathe to part with it, but it’s been gathering dust and heartache for years now. It has only served as a reminder of sweet days gone by.

“That’s incredible,” the customer says. “And you’re sure it’s that inexpensive?”

“It is not about the money, young man…” It is about forgetting.  _ Twelfth Night  _ is a comedy, it is supposed to bring joy, but as it sits on Aziraphale’s shelf it has brought him nothing but sorrow. “Share it with a lover. That’s what it’s about.”

The young man pays him and leaves the shop, the book wrapped neatly in brown paper with a bow made of twine. Outside, he hears an engine roar. It is a familiar noise that gives his heart pause, although he can always recognize immediately after that it is not the growl of a Bentley. The radio blares from the open windows of the young man’s car.

_ They’ve opened shops down on the West Side. _

_ Will all the cacti find a home? _

Music is so strange these days. Far stranger, even, than what they listened to in New York. He hates to think of it, but he cannot stop himself.  _ Forgive me _ . Why, why couldn’t he have said more? He thinks of writing, every day. But he fears too much that it will be too little too late. Crowley deserves better than his indecisive fluttering. He deserves his devilish lifestyle and all those opportunities to spread sin like warm butter.

Ah. He could go for croissants…

There are many things to fill the void. Food and wine, reading to escape. Saving souls and pretending that it is enough alone to satisfy him. Doing good, at every opportunity, and going home at the end of the day wanting nothing more than to be so very, very bad.

“What was I  _ thinking,” _ he pleads with himself. What indeed, from the very beginning, even allowing himself for the briefest moment to  _ smile _ at his beloved demon. It set in motion his downfall, and made it so that saving himself was more painful than any amount of burning hellfire could manage. “‘Forgive me,’ ‘you go too fast for me,’ shut  _ up _ , Aziraphale. You fool.” 

It does get easier, as the months pass. It heals like any other wound, with care and time. But there is always a phantom pain, when he hears a woman singing, or when he sees a man with his lips stained violet from drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aziRAPHALE YOU HEADASS
> 
> The song in this is David Bowie’s “Eight Line Poem”
> 
> Thanks so much for all your kind words and for sticking with me through all the sad. I promise there will be a payoff!!


	9. Crystal Blue Persuasion

  1. _New York City._



He considers it an experiment. How long will it take to replace his blood with poison? It’s reconnaissance, for future deaths he may cause. It goes well for a few days, and he almost feels as though his mortal body will soon collapse. They won’t issue him a new one. He’s made too many mistakes already. His biggest one, maybe they’ll torture it out of him.  _ How long have you been in love? _ Six-thousand years.  _ Did you two ever conspire against us together? _ No, we couldn’t be bothered. Too busy wasting our time.

And is it truly a waste? It must have been, because he’s left with nothing but the soft imprint of love on his lips, and it only hurts. It does not warm him to know that, once, he had what he wanted. He needs to find new things to want. But there is no one and nothing.

How much poison? Two more shots and then the night ends, he swears. His fingers are long and everyone watches, salivating as he rolls a joint. One more shot. Help them find the good veins. Grow one fingernail long to make it easy. Any more poison? Please, yes. One more bottle, but no more red wine, because it tastes like someone he used to kiss. Pace yourself. Lace your drugs with other drugs. It’s just science. It was once chemistry, and now there is nothing. He reacts in conjunction with no one else, and everyone knows he’s lonely, and everyone offers him drinks and bumps and everything they have.

“Was’ready t’give him ev’rythin’ I had, you know,” he says to whomever will listen. Sometimes that’s nobody at all. They tire of him. They have reached their critical mass of sin. They don’t need his help anymore. There is nothing left he can teach them. He knows he should be proud. Hell is proud. He receives commendation. They name a damp, dark hallway after him. There’s a plaque.

One day, he decides he should go home. His plants have probably long-since wilted, even though he can’t name just how long it’s been. He’s got records he misses. Clothes he wants to wear. He’s just afraid to stand in the same spot where everything went to shit.

And it’s not even the first time. They’ve argued and fought and fussed more times than he can count, but never,  _ never  _ had it been preceded by something that left them both so elated and enamored. Even in his numbest hours, he can still feel such loving arms around his neck. Hands clinging to his shirt. His toes curl in his leather shoes and he wishes he was asleep.

When he returns to St. Marks he notices that the seasons have changed. Aziraphale is certainly long gone. He’s an idiot, yes, but he’s smart enough not to wait for someone as stubborn and quick to emote as Crowley. He unlocks his door, holding out some foolish hope that maybe he’ll enter and see him, making tea, tidying the place, and he’s filled it with books, and he’s made the bed for them both…

There is nothing but the mess he left and a paper crane on the unmade bed. He remembers back when Aziraphale was still bad at origami. He gently unfolds it, half because he’s certain there is a message and half because he has the inclination to destroy something delicate and beautiful.  _ Forgive me. _ Cryptic and cruel as ever. Forgive him?  _ Forgive him? _ It’s not exactly in a demon’s wheelhouse to forgive. Aziraphale must know that.

He falls into bed, skin against the bare mattress, the note still in his hand. His consciousness, ever-altered and ever-changing, finally rests without help. 

His dream is like any other dream; he has no idea how long it lasts in the waking world. He has, in his time, experienced eons in mere minutes of slumber. Or a few seconds of terror or fantasy that filled an entire night’s sleep. 

He rests for months. Tossing, turning, his body incapable of decay. He dreams a long dream, over and over, from which he cannot wake up.

He’s by the seaside. The wind is blowing and his hair is long like it used to be. He can feel the sand between his toes and the sun on his forehead. It is vivid and real, but this time, the sea looks truly endless. It is as if, beyond the horizon, he can tell there is nothing but more water. He stands a while, dressed in graying robes that were once white. The tide comes in until the salty water wraps around his ankles, eroding every callous on his bare feet. The wet sand rises. He feels a hand in his. 

He turns to his right, and he sees who he expects, even the first time he had the dream, before it became his seeming eternity. His Angel, robes still a purer white, smiling at him in a way that absolves him of all sins. Like when they met. There is forgiveness in the sparkle of his eyes. 

Aziraphale speaks, but Crowley cannot hear what he says, only the gentle waves pushing in, pulling out, salty water creeping up his robes, staining them darker. 

They hold hands. The sun sets. The tide changes and become rough, tearing him away so strongly until he can no longer hold onto his beloved Angel. He tries so hard to hang on he feels as though his fingers will be pulled to pieces, and he is willing to accept the pain just to be able to keep on touching him—

But he must let go. He is sucked under the ocean, screaming though the water fills his lungs, and the ocean is so dark, and the pressure is so high, and his every bone is cracking and one-thousand mysterious monsters swim around him in a maelstrom. Here there is no light but their eyes and there is no Aziraphale and there is no sound. 

And, just like that, the world is sandy-dry again. The air is so hot, it dries his ragged clothes until he reaches the shore again, looking out across the endless ocean. The tide comes in, his Angel holds his hand, so on, so forth, until he screams himself awake one morning, drenched in mortal sweat. 

His hair is long. His flat is freezing. He has to leave before the ocean drags him under once again.

  1. _London_.



Finally, he’s back in his beloved Bentley. He’s made sure, through sheer will, that it’s like new. With a few slight improvements to the radio system.

_ I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold... _

He turns it up to drown out any doubt he has left in his mind. He’s slept for nearly two whole years, silent to his lover, never letting him know if he’s indeed forgiven him or not. Maybe their cruelty works the same as their lifelong arrangement; they work enough to cancel one another out. But will  _ he _ be forgiven? Are Aziraphale’s eyes as strict as Heaven’s? No, he’s far too kind, even when he’s being a complete bastard. 

He parks outside the bookshop, heaving a sigh of relief that it still appears to be open and under the same, divine management.

There was a time when he could just let himself in, and his habits have him reaching for the doorknob. But he stills himself. Things are different now. He wishes so much that he could just desperately call his name like a war horn, signaling his return. But he chokes up. He knocks, rapping in a charming rhythm.

And here it begins. The legendary purgatory, all the more a blend of Heaven and Hell than New York or the warehouse or sleep or the intractable pain of being in love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love crying and I love Coke Binge Crowley
> 
> I think that, as far as my writing goes, this is my favorite chapter so far. The song this time is “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young.
> 
> I’m writing this at work and it’s fucking SWELTERING so I feel like I understand Hell


	10. We were so turned on by your lack of conclusions.

He has a song stuck in his head. Another odd little thing he’d heard in the cafe, trying desperately to enjoy a croissant and tea, alone. It was a new, trendy place, a little too dim for his taste, but he knew exactly whose taste it was suited to. Especially because of the music.

“ _ I was stone and he was wax, so he could scream and still relax _ ,” he mumbles, singing softly, counting the stresses, naming the meter. Iambic, nearly. Two lines of tetrameter. Clever. He continues to hum as he dusts the shelves. He knows he does not have to; people will always buy books, no matter how dusty, and he can very well miracle it all away if he so chooses. But there is something tactile ( _ dactylic, _ it makes him think, but that’s not the right meter) about it that satisfies an unnamed need. The requirement to busy the hands, to focus the mind on anything other than what it so dearly wants to think of.

He hears a melodic knock and he sighs, setting his duster down on top of an old, decaying copy of  _ Anna Karenina _ . 

“We’re closed!” he says, loud enough to be heard through the door. But the knocking comes again. He thinks of Poe. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake…”

He opens the door, the familiar creaking giving way to the subtle wind of the street. He blinks. He is sure he is dreaming.

There is an entire spectrum of human emotion that Aziraphale has spent his life trying not to feel, but to understand in detail. Finally, he does, standing there in the doorway, faced with his greatest love and greatest inconvenience, eyes glowing behind his dark glasses, roses in his hands, wrapped in thin paper. He is relieved, at first. He’s come back, he’s alive and well, he’s chosen to see him. And then, the anger, for taking so long, for being so  _ him _ . 

And finally, sorrow. He has wasted so much time, filled so many hours with dusting and eating and doing good, Heavenly deeds, and none of it mattered, because Crowley will always come back. There is no escaping him, and he knows, deep down, he does not want to. No matter the pain or the consequence, no matter how many times they fall out, all of his many roads will continue to lead back to him. A pest ( _ anapest _ , he thinks, but that’s not the right meter either).

He’s sure Crowley knows this, but he gauges no pride in his countenance. He looks...tired. Drooping. Wilting like a plant he’s not scolded in weeks.

“Crowley…” He realizes then that he’s not said his name out loud in years.

“May I...come in?” he asks, having the audacity to be polite. Aziraphale doesn’t answer, he just backs up to give him room, and watches with baited breath and captivated eyes as he strides into the bookshop. There is a sense of belonging, in the sight of him. As if there has been a Crowley-shaped cavern here. He has tried so many other puzzle pieces, and none of them fit. “Looks nice…”

Aziraphale’s mouth hangs open and he shuts the door behind them.

“Looks  _ nice?  _ That’s what you have to say?” Even he is surprised at the bitterness in his tone. “It has been _ two years _ , Crowley. You cannot pretend as if nothing has happened--”

“Angel--”

“Stop it. Don’t…” He steadies himself, holding lightly onto the checkout counter. “Don’t call me that. You’ve not earned it back.” He knows how the humans use the term. It is to say  _ sweetheart, darling, baby _ .

“Aziraphale,” Crowley begins, striding forward, placing the roses on the countertop, ignoring the gift as if he knows it will make no difference. “I’m sorry. It’s...it’s all stupid, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“All the…” He gestures vaguely. “Bullshit about being an angel and a demon and all that nonsense. I...I care for you, you care for me. It’s--”

“It doesn’t matter how much I...care for you,” Aziraphale says, softening, wishing so much that he could stay tough as nails in the face of all this sweetness.

Goodness, how his demon looks like a dream. His hair shines, long and fiery, tucked messily behind his ears as if carelessly. His skin is clean and pure and soft and begging for a hand to cup his cheek-- 

“It doesn’t  _ matter _ ,” he repeats. “It can’t be. We-- they--” He thinks of Heaven, how suspicious they must already be. “All I asked for was your forgiveness, Crowley. For...it not being possible.”

The silence hangs like lead. Crowley’s features seem to droop, and he slowly tears his sunglasses from his face, dropping them on the ground. His shoulders slope. He takes a shaky breath.

He falls to his knees. It is a sight that ought to be unheard of: a groveling demon. But he wraps his thin arms around Aziraphale’s waist, his face pressed into his belly, and Aziraphale is certain he feels the distinct mist of tears. Those beloved fingers dig into his back as if he’ll be torn away by a riptide, and he finds himself settling his palms atop Crowley’s head as if bid by instinct.

“Oh, Crowley…” he says, softer than he wanted to, involuntarily stroking his long, wavy hair as if it will fix whatever despair he’s managed to cause. 

“Please, Angel,” he says, muffled by the soft suede of Aziraphale’s vest. “I feel like...I don’t _ exist _ without you.”

Aziraphale stays silent, stunned, and softening all the more. He holds Crowley’s head close as if it is delicate and darling. He lets him go on, having no such words to match his confession, no matter how strongly he echoes it in his heart.

“I slept for  _ two fucking years _ , Angel, and I dreamt about you the whole time, and when I  _ was _ awake I was just all-- all  _ fucked _ and I don’t even care about being  _ bad  _ anymore, Angel.” He rambles like a wounded child, nuzzling his nose into Aziraphale’s belly, his shoulders seeming to shake with the threat of sobs. It ought to be a pathetic sight, but it only serves to make Aziraphale weep. The tears well behind his eyes and he closes them, fighting it off. Crowley lifts his head, gazing up at him, releasing his hold around his back and grabbing instead for Aziraphale’s hands. He holds them to his chin. “Be with me. We can leave here. We don’t have to be what we are anymore.”

“We--” His loyalty suffocates. He reaches his fingers beneath Crowley’s chin and lifts it, holding his jaw so dearly. “My dear...how are we supposed to go and do that?” He would love to believe that his question isn’t genuine, that he doesn’t actually hunger for an answer that will make it all okay.

Crowley hurries to his feet, holding tight onto Aziraphale’s hands.

“Can’t we figure that out later, Angel?” he asks, so quiet, so tender, so tearful.

He’s weak. Angels are supposed to be pillars of morality and strength in the face of uncertainty. When you begin to question, let your faith guide you, that is always the way it has been. But when the rules were made they did not account for Crowley. Surely no God could have imagined someone so irresistibly beloved. She could not have predicted that his eyes would plead so sweetly, that his hands would hold so roughly and that his voice would sound like music.

“Crowley, you…”

“I’ve tried to slow down, Angel, I have…”

Aziraphale’s lips tremble, and he gives in just like his knees buckle beneath him. He’s kissed so dearly, arms around his ribs to keep him upright, his loyalty to Heaven collapsing within him like a paper crane in a flood. He tosses his arms around Crowley’s neck, holding on for dear, dear life. He’s thankful of the counter behind him, how it digs a little into his back, the slight pain reminding him not to ascend too joyfully to another, loving plane.

There is so much for them to talk about. There is so much that remains complicated. But this, right now, is simple, like iambic feet. It is so easy to be guided to a bed, it is so easy to mumble apologies into someone’s ear, and it is so, so easy to be held in the arms you’ve coveted for thousands of years.  _ Thou shalt not _ do any of this, he knows. And yet he does, and with such an unapologetic grin on his face.

For hours they lay, ignoring the problem at hand, running palms down one another’s backs and being so, so weak for one another. He’s given up entirely. The wrath of God is deadly, but his thoughts are nowhere near it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Aziraphale sings (and the song I got the title of this chapter from) is "The Bewlay Brothers" by David Bowie, off of the album Hunky Dory, which is one of my faves. if you couldn't tell reading this fic, i fucking love Bowie lmao
> 
> anyway
> 
> it ain't over but at least they're making out and got they heads out they asses for five fucking minutes
> 
> i'm gonna go drink some more wine now
> 
> i would say art imitates life but it's white wine and it's probably much cheaper than what they drink


	11. But I Forgive You

The evening forces him into anxiety. The evening, in New York, was when everything began to circle the drain, every day into every night, unending chaos, sorrow masked by the highs he both chased and provided. But now, the dusklight that falls on his skin is like a balm instead of an abrasion. He’s with his Angel, safe indoors, enthusiastically ignoring all the consequences and all the complications. He knows he can’t do that forever; Aziraphale won’t let him. But for right now, as the sun sets, can’t he pretend it’s simple? Can’t he come up behind him in the kitchen, predatory as a snake, and wrap his arms around him like a cocoon? Can’t he kiss the back of his neck and mumble something sappy?

“You make tea the best of anyone,” Crowley claims, low and lazy.

“ _ Really _ , my dear, there are only two steps.”

“Yeah, n’ you do them best.”

“If you continue to flatter me, it will become disingenuous.”

Crowley mimics him, mocking his proper tone, and he’s elated to hear that it makes him laugh. As the kettle heats up, Aziraphale turns, settling himself comfortably against Crowley’s chest, sighing a sigh that can only mean one, terrible, unfortunate thing.

“What are we going to do?” Aziraphale asks, quiet as a mouse.

“We’re going to have tea,” he insists, ever-avoidant, wishing to just let the idle love last a little while longer.

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale protests, pulling away. The somber look on his face is devastating. “I...I don’t plan on  _ not _ being with you, Crowley. I think that’s fairly obvious.”

“Glad to hear it…”

“I just don’t know _ how _ .”

They drop the subject until their tea has steeped, and they sit close together on the loveseat.

“We’ve been seeing each other for centuries, Angel, and they’ve not figured out a thing,” Crowley reminds him. 

“ _ Seeing  _ each other?”

“Oh come on, you know. Meeting up. I know it means something else, okay? Shut up.”

Aziraphale laughs, his lips drawn tightly as if trying not to hurt Crowley’s feelings by making fun of his stumbling.

“You’re right, though,” Aziraphale says, bringing a finger to his chin. “I suppose not much has to change now that we’ve...well, determined that neither of us will burst into flames.” There is a coyness about him, as if he won’t speak of their intimacies, no matter how chaste, out loud. 

“So, I’m around you all the time, they ask why, I’ll tell ‘em I’m...I dunno, doing reconnaissance.”

“For an eternity?”

Crowley inhales to respond, but he pauses. An eternity? Why did it not occur to him that, now that they’re together, it will be forever? He’s touched to know that Aziraphale plans on it. He’s frightened of a thousand lifetimes of having to be sneaky, though, after all, he is a snake…

“You’re a complicated person, Angel. I’ve got  _ a lot  _ of reconnaissance to do.”

“Ah…” He sips his tea. “And I suppose I’ll tell my associates I’m trying to change your ways.”

“Make an honest demon out of me.”

“Show you the light.”

“Good luck with that.”

Their tea grows cold. They sit together, recounting the million times this could have happened, and yet it didn’t. Somehow, it’s not painful to think of all those missed opportunities, now that he’s got his Angel’s hands in his, now that they may punctuate their conversation with sweet kisses. Eventually, Crowley gathers the strength to tear himself away and head for Aziraphale’s paltry record collection. In it, he’s pleased to find something he’d once left behind, and that it hasn’t been thrown in the trash. All the way from 1962.

“You kept it?” Crowley asks, turning and presenting the record. A Sam Cooke single, the cover dusty from years of abandonment. 

“I--” Aziraphale flusters, rising from the couch and walking to him. “I didn’t hate it like I hated everything else you had me listen to. So yes, I kept it.”

Crowley says nothing. He smiles as if grateful and humbled, and slips the record out of its sleeve and sets it to play. In truth, he’s not heard the song since the last time he played it, here, for Aziraphale. As if avoiding it on purpose, and because his crowd in New York refused to listen to anything so popular and classic.

_ If you ever change your mind _

_ About leaving, leaving me behind _

_ Baby, bring it to me _

_ Bring your sweet loving _

_ Bring it on home to me. _

“Why didn’t you hate it? Like everything else?” Crowley asks, sliding his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders, letting his hands hang in the air as he begins to sway. A bit like dancing, but the kind that requires no skill.

“It’s...nice,” he admits. “And I thought, well…” He grows sheepish, burying once again his face in Crowley’s chest. “It made me think of you. You always seem to come back, yes?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like I’m your home…”

He needn’t say another word. They embrace and dance slow, stepping on the antique rug, comforted by the familiar creaking of the old floorboards.

When the song ends, he doesn’t feel the usual emptiness of silence. His head is filled with the joyous white noise of perfect love, of finally having the thing he’s so long wanted. He holds Aziraphale’s face in his hands, taking in the magnificent sight. All his. For an eternity.

There’s another knock at the door, and he groans, casting a look of demonic wrath toward the source.

“We’re closed!” Aziraphale yells. His voice grows quiet. “...maybe all week…” He smiles bashfully, playing with the collar of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley feels his ears turn hot and his knees go weak. There is no one else in the universe with that much power over him. The knocking returns, and Aziraphale sighs in frustration, peeling himself away to go deal with the nuisance. But, halfway to the door, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Angel?”

“You need to hide,” Aziraphale whispers, turning to him with a look of abject terror.

“What?”

Aziraphale gently bids him to move, shuffles him off into the next room over.

“What in Hell--”

“They’re here. Angels, I can tell. Checking in, for once.”

“You’ve got to be kidding…”

“Don’t make a sound.”

“Are you serious? It’s not a game of  _ hide-and-seek-- _ ”

“My darling,” Aziraphale shuts him up, holding fast onto his arms. “I’ll cover for you. They don’t know you’re here. Just  _ hide _ .”

He does as he’s told, but not before stealing a desperate kiss. He shuts the heavy, velvet curtain and retreats into the room, quietly taking a seat on the floor, trying not to groan or sigh. He hears just the muffled skeleton of a conversation, and he hopes so much that it’s just business-as-usual. When no one comes bursting into the room to douse him with holy water, he assumes he’s safe, and so he reclines against the nearest bookcase, folding his hands behind his head, shutting his eyes to rest.

“ **You’ve made a mistake, Crowley,** ” a dreadfully familiar voice says. He opens his eyes in a flutter, and startles when he sees the Archdemon standing in Aziraphae’s study. “ **You’re coming with me.** ”

“Wh--” He scrambles to his feet. “What are you--”

“ **Don’t play dumb. You’ve got to answer for your mistakes. If you don’t come quietly I’m prepared to--** ”

“Can I just...can I leave a note?” He gestures desperately at the curtain, worried that Aziraphale will think he’s left him again. “Please, really don’t want him to be mad. You get it, right? Beelzebub?” He pleads with her, arms spread wide and eyes glowing with desperation, his pupils like slits.

She very clearly does not get it, but she shrugs and lets him jot something down before taking him by the arm and descending into the depths of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beepblep--
> 
> BeezB--
> 
> Bleepboop has arrived
> 
> originally this was not going to be a part of the fic (it was another idea i had) but A) i dont want it to end yet and i feel like writing something long and bigger in scope B) i think i've found a good way to synthesize and C) i love beebbap kween of demons
> 
> the song is "bring it on home to me" by sam cooke
> 
> i promise this will have a happy end and that there will be very little suffering
> 
> also i laughed out loud writing "make an honest demon out of me" dhfdjshkjg


	12. It ain't easy to get to heaven when you're goin' down.

Aziraphale has never been directly under the eyes of God Herself. It is a very rare privilege. He cannot imagine the scrutiny they dole out, and how it could possibly be any worse than being stared down by Gabriel. Even in the dim light of his bookshop, those violet eyes seem to glow in judgment. 

“Ah, do come in, Gabriel,” he stammers, stepping back to allow him to come in, but not without a furtive glance out onto the stoop to make sure he’s not accompanied by Michael, Heaven forbid. When he shuts the door and turns, he realizes too late that the bouquet of roses has been left on the counter. He winces, hoping dearly that Gabriel doesn’t notice. “What erm...what brings you by?”

“Routine check-in,” he says, looking around at all the dusty shelves, wriggling his nose, apparently in disgust. “Haven’t heard from you in a while, just wanted to make sure things were alright.”

“Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Nothing to report, so, I know you’re busy--”

“Haven’t seen that demon Crowley around lately, have you?”

Aziraphale stumbles some, reaching out for the counter, trying to block the roses from view.

“No, not, ah...not him!” He shakes his head, frowning. “Hide nor hair…”

“Is that...is that a thing?” Gabriel asks, cocking his head.

“Human saying.”

“Careful there!” he chimes, wagging a friendly finger. “It’s just funny you say you haven’t seen him. Could have sworn I saw you two together.”

“T...together?” He gulps, panicking, pushing the roses off the counter so that they land out of view, as if anything he can do will save him now. “How odd…”

“Yeah, one of our agents in the States got an interesting photo, turns out,” Gabriel claims, reaching into his pocket, never taking his gaze off of Aziraphale, never ceasing to smile. “That’s not you?”

Aziraphale’s mouth hangs open some, hating how the heat surely rises in his cheeks to see the photo. He feels incredibly lucky that they didn’t capture anything...unseemly. It’s the two of them, stumbling drunk, arm-in-arm in Chelsea. 

“Oh...no I’m...I’m afraid that’s me, you see, I…” He takes the picture between his fingers, trying not to carry it like the precious thing it is. All black-and-white, their smiles shining beneath the city lights. He remembers it exactly. “It was years ago, I was...I got him quite drunk. Trying to gather some ah...intelligence.”

“Intelligence,” Gabriel repeats, nodding in approval. “Years ago, really? And you never thought to mention it?”

“Didn’t...find much out.”

“I see.” Gabriel nicks the photo out of Aziraphale’s hand and puts it neatly back in his coat pocket. “What in Heaven did you two find to talk about, then?”

“Erm...he showed me the most dreadful music. His side really are having a go at New York. Best keep an eye on it.”

“Alright,” Gabriel agrees, folding his hands before his body and smiling as if the business is done with. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Oh, it’s really quite alright, Gabriel. Always good to see you.”

“Oh? Well, if you’re not busy I was wondering if I could have a look around.”

“A...a look around?” Aziraphale tries to temper the fear in his voice. If Gabriel finds out, surely the consequences for both he and Crowley would be dire. “You wish to buy something?”

“Yes.” He does not elaborate, but he seems to glide past Aziraphale and toward the back room.

“Oh! That section really is off limits I’m afraid!” He scrambles to catch up with him, to try and keep the curtain closed.

“Isn’t that a rule for your human guests? The eyes of Heaven see everything, Aziraphale.”

Gabriel pulls back the heavy curtain and Aziraphale holds his breath. It will all be over, just as soon as it began. So brief was their joy, but so strong was their love. He thinks, for a blasphemous moment, that maybe Heaven is cruel. He is truly being tested, and he has failed. Soon he will fall, and his life as an Angel will end. Will he remember what it was like? Will he grow ugly and dim in Hell? At least he could be with Crowley, so long as he’s not punished by his own side. And poor, darling Crowley, how he had been pining in turn, and in secret. Heaven is cruel, and so is Aziraphale.

But, there is nothing. Gabriel opens the curtain to an empty room.

“...well,” Gabriel says. “It seems you don’t have the um...the book I wanted.”

“Oh...a shame…Perhaps check back some other time.” Aziraphale grimaces and shakes his head, deriding his own stupidity. 

“Yes. Definitely.” Gabriel lets the curtain fall, sighing heavily. He is not as opaque as he thinks he is. Aziraphale had of course expected there to be suspicion and inquiries, but maybe not to quickly.

“Give me regards to everyone up there, Gabriel,” he says, opening the door for him, holding out an arm to hurry him out. For once he dispenses with any worry about being rude. There are more important things to worry about, after all, like where Crowley’s gone, or if he’s just playing some demonic trick.

Once Aziraphale sees that Gabriel has made his way down the street, he rushes to the back room. 

“Crowley?” he calls, looking to the ceiling, looking at the sconces on the wall, hoping

perhaps to see a snake coiled around the bronze. Nothing. As he steps into the room he hears a crunch beneath his feet, and he looks down to see a singular piece of paper. “Oh dear…” He unfolds it hurriedly, smoothing out the creases to try and read it.

_ Angel-- _

_ I’ve not run away this time. I love you. I’m going to Hell but I’ll get out of it. We always do. Just wait for me. _

The note is soon stained with a single teardrop. At least he can be sure that Hell is just as cruel as Heaven.

What is he to do? Chase after him? It would be unwise to do anything but keep a low profile, he knows. He holds the note close to his chest and looks to the floor, wishing he could peer through the layers of Earth and make sure his beloved was safe. Safe as one can be while being punished by his fellow demons, that is. God, what torture they must commit! His poor Crowley! He sniffs back any further tears, knowing that Crowley would insist he buck up and remain strong. _ Just wait for me _ . How the tables have turned. Now he must still himself. He is the one that is eager to go too fast and too brave, charging into Hell to save him. _ Just wait for me _ . But for how long? Will he be able to tell if they’ve killed him? Will his heart sink and his will disappear? 

He will wait. Isn’t that their strong suit? Decisive inaction. He’ll open a bottle of wine. He’ll read the note over and over until his eyes dry out.

_ Later that day. The path to Hell _ .

As they sink through the molten Earth, Beelzebub stares straight ahead. Crowley keeps opening his mouth to speak, but continually thinks better of it.

“You know, Beez, may I call you Beez?”

**“No.”**

“Alright, well. You know, I was thinking, you and I go way back, right?”

**“Only insofar as I have been burdened with knowing you for a very long time.”**

“Charming! Right, so, I was thinking…” He turns to her, placing an arm on hers, trying and failing to get her to face him. “Whatever I’ve done, is there really the need for a whole big hearing? You n’ I both know the outcome--”

**“You must be made an example of,”** she claims, finally giving in and turning to look up at him. 

“And what exactly is it I’ve done?”

She squints at him. The flies around her crown settle comfortably on her head.

**“Unlawful and knowing fraternization with the enemy.”**

“Who? Aziraphale? Oh, really that’s just…” He shakes his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m just...getting information outta him, that’s all.”

**“What sort of information?”** she asks, folding her arms, cocking an eyebrow. God dammit.

He gulps. He’s so tired of lying.

“Look, Beelzebub…” He pulls off his sunglasses and hooks them into his shirt collar. “I can show you what I’ve learned. Let’s not do this. Let’s not...put me on trial in front of everyone and have it be a whole big...thing…”

**“** **_Show_ ** **me?”** she repeats, snapping her fingers, pausing their descent.

“Come to New York.”

**“Are you serious, Crowley?”**

“Come on,” he says, grabbing her by the shoulders, ignoring how her lip twitches in disdain. “Is it really gonna make a difference? Putting on a show? You can judge me, alright? I don’t want…” He waves his hand behind him. “I don’t want  _ all them  _ having anything to do with it. Especially not Hastur.”

She glares for a long time, and then he swears he hears her snort out a small, nigh inaudible laugh.

**“Fine. You get two hours. But it’s not going to help. You’re just delaying the inevitable.”**

Grinning, he offers her an arm. If he can just push it off for just a little while, if he can just come up with a plan...if he can just show her why it is so easy to fall in love in a city full of sin and opportunity, maybe she’ll let it go. Maybe she’ll turn a blind eye...Or, maybe she’ll hate it so much she’ll leave him alone forever. 

Or he’ll be executed publicly. As they travel, he tries desperately to comfort himself by knowing that he got to tell Aziraphale, finally and explicitly, that he loves him. Even if he was a coward and could only write it down. Like Bowie sang. Not quite sure what he’s supposed to do, so he’ll just write some love, so on and so forth...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley and beebzlebaby's excellent adventure


	13. A love I could not obey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: just so there’s no confusion, I hc Beep as non-binary with she/her pronouns, because she just likes them better, because she said so is why

They manifest in a dark alleyway. Best to start off someplace Beelzebub will find homey. Between the rotting dumpsters and the wet, brick walls, she seems content. 

“Get that.. _.thing _ off your head,” Crowley instructs, waving a finger at the massive insect she wears like a crown. “People here are weird, but that’s a bit much.”

She pouts, which he finds startling. Never knew the Lord of the Flies to be so attached to her appearance. She pats the top of the insect as if apologizing to it, and then snaps her fingers, and it’s gone. 

**“Better?”** she asks, folding her arms. He shrugs, because no, she still looks like a gremlin from a children’s story, but he’s not trying to get himself into any worse trouble.

“Lots. Come on,” he says, grabbing her by the elbow and leading her out onto the street. She squints in the sudden sunlight, so unaccustomed to any manner of brightness.

**“Give me your glasses,”** she commands, holding out a palm.

“Absolutely not.”

He guides her to the warehouse, where he’s certain a party is already raging, even in the afternoon. She shuffles along, arms glued to her sides, eyes darting about to the building tops and the faces of strangers. No one pays her any mind, of course. She looks a bit like Moe Tucker if Moe Tucker didn’t shower.

**“Where are we going, Crowley?”** she asks him, clearly impatient, taking wide, fast steps to keep up with his lanky stride.

“We’re  _ here, _ Beez.”

**“I told you not to--”**

He pulls her inside to the massive den of sin. It’s loud, _ monstrously _ loud, and crowded. He turns to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. She squirms, shrugging him off.

“And do try to talk like a normal person. Your voice would give these people a bad trip.”

She scowls, but nods, however reluctant and angry.

All around the music plays, a fairly new anthem, the Devil’s sweet work, beautiful music begging humans to question what they know about their bodies and minds.

_ People stared at the makeup on his face  _

_ Laughed at his long black hair, his animal grace  _

_ The boy in the bright blue jeans  _

_ Jumped up on the stage  _

_ And lady stardust sang his songs  _

_ Of darkness and disgrace _

Perfect. He leads Beelzebub further into the party, grabbing them drinks off of a passing tray carried by a woman in a latex jumpsuit. She takes it, seeming eager to calm herself, and Crowley can’t help but grin, and then desperately try to stifle it. A nervous Prince of Hell! Imagine that.

“What is it you’ve got to show me, Crowley? I haven’t got all day.”

“Oh? In a hurry then? Got some urgent temptations to get to?”

She continues to scowl. He relents in his teasing and offers her a seat on a bright red couch. Her feet don’t reach the floor.

“I wanted you to look at these people,” he tells her, leaning back, sipping his drink. “This is all our work, Beelzebub.” The entire warehouse is busy with sin. Her eyes scan the room, taking in the sights, and he swears he sees a small smile twitch upon her lips.

“What’s all that got to do with your boyfriend?” she deadpans, turning her drink in her hand and eventually taking a gulp.

“Over there, see?” In the corner, somehow secret despite the crowd, there are a man and a woman, standing close, vaguely dancing, eyes glued to one another as if entranced. They seem to come from different worlds entirely. The girl, dressed in a neat and clean dress that makes her look like a stewardess, the man in clothes all wrinkled and his hair long and greasy. Opposite, and yet so dearly and clearly in love. “See that sort of thing all the time, here. People mad over one another. And do you know what people do when they’re in love? They sin, and they break rules. Isn’t that what we want?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, loosely holding his drink in his hands.

“Is that what you’re saying then?” she asks, echoing his position, though still staring at the dreamy couple in the corner. “That you’re in love and you should be able to do whatever you want?  _ That’s _ your argument?”

He shakes his head and takes a sip, letting the liquor pleasantly burn his throat, hissing at the sensation he loves so well.

“I am. And I’ll do what I want no matter what you say, but that’s not the point.”

They’re quiet for a long time, finishing their drinks. They’re handed another round.

“What is the point then, Crowley? This isn’t making me want to execute you any less.”

“It’s not hurting anyone. Me n’ him.”

She makes no immediate argument, though he can tell there are thoughts stirring in her head. 

“Isn’t there anyone that makes you crazy? Enough so to be stupid?” he asks, turning to look at her, his gaze soft. Maybe for the first time she’s seen. She stares him down, biting the insides of her lips. She gulps.

“I...I mean, I know or...I think I know how that might feel,” she says, so quiet beneath the pulsing music.

_ Oh, how I sighed, when they asked if I knew his name… _

“Is that so?”

She nods, noncommittal, staring out into the vast ocean of people. It seems that, though she exists in this physical place, her eyes have brought her somewhere else entirely.

“But what does it matter, Crowley? That’s not how it works. We can’t just let you be with the enemy.”

“Says who, really?”

“Says...the um…” Her nose twitches. “It’s just not  _ done, _ okay?”

He rolls his eyes, making sure to tilt his chin down so she can see it behind his glasses.

“You’re gonna make me beg, aren’t you?” he asks, leaning back again, crossing one ankle over his knee. 

“I’m not against seeing that happen.”

He tosses his head back and groans. Fine. If that’s the way it has to be. He adjusts his stature, turning to her in full, and grabs her clammy hands.

“What do you think you’re--”

“Listen to me,” he pleads. “There’s got to be a way we can let this go. Talk to Heaven, I don’t know. Keep a close watch on us or something.” She raises her brow. “Not  _ that  _ close, shut up. Please, Beelzebub. I’ll keep on doing demon stuff, I promise. I just…” He hates how weak he sounds, how desperate, but he can tell there is an uncharacteristic twinkle in her usually dead and dim eyes. “I am in  _ love _ . Isn’t that worth...I dunno, changing the rules for?”

She parts her lips as if to tell him it’s out of the question, but then she softens.

“...I can set up a meeting,” she tells him, and then downs the rest of her drink. “But I’m not making any promises.”

In his relief, joy, and tipsiness, he hugs her, much to her squeaking and squirming.

“Sorry,” he says. “Do you want to head back?”

She takes a look around the room. There is a fondness in her eyes for all that sin.

“Not just yet. Let’s...stay for a little while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley did you
> 
> did you just "She's All That" the lord of the flies, archdemon, prince of hell
> 
> anyway beebz is adorable and i want them to be friends
> 
> i was t h i s close to having him be like "ooooooooh beezlebutt has a crushhhhh"
> 
> maybe he will eventually be that kind of asshole in this fic, but rn i had to have him be an emotional puppy
> 
> Song this time is “Lady Stardust” by David Bowie


	14. Leave your flowers at my door.

_ New York. 1972. The golden hour of the morning. _

Aziraphale stands in the center of the now-familiar Grand Army Plaza, stiff and anxious as if Gabriel is holding a gun to his back rather than his judgmental, stinging eyes.

“Why have we come here, Gabriel?” he asks, fidgeting some, unable to help but give himself away. This place erupts with romance. He swears he can still hear that woman singing.  _ Goodbye, my love, goodbye _ , and he tries not to let his eyes get glassy. It might have to be goodbye. He’s not heard from Crowley all night, and now, at sunrise, he so wishes he could watch the golden sky with him. Today and forever. But there are no sunrises in Hell. And in Heaven, it never really sets. Perhaps they will never be in the same place again.

“Emergency meeting,” Gabriel tells him, looking at his watch. He does so love the fashion here, doesn’t he? It’s got a golden band, and Aziraphale can hear the hands clicking, echoing in the empty square. “Hell rang me up. Beelzebub, specifically.”

“Ah. The lord of the flies has you in her address book.”

“Don’t be cute, Aziraphale. This is not good news for you.”

“I’m...in trouble?”

Gabriel sighs and pinches his nose between his fingers.

“There’s no use playing dumb anymore. Beelzebub has confirmed my suspicions and we are meeting to decide your fate.”

“Your suspicions…”

“Oh, drop the act. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He pokes him in the chest. “Your boyfriend spilled the whole story, Aziraphale. Told Beelzebub he’s ‘in love?’ Or something insane like that?”

“In...love?” It is not as though he did not know it already, but to hear it said...perhaps it will never not make him dizzy and gleeful. He tries to stifle his giddy smiling. “Oh, Gabriel, is it really so awful? I—“

“Yes, Aziraphale. How do you not understand this?” Exasperated, Gabriel shakes his head and gives him some space, folding his arms behind his back and looking off at how the rays of sunlight gleam through the archway. “It’s stupid...a demon. Of all the things to do, you fall in love with the enemy.”

“He was an angel once, Gabriel.”

“Yeah, well, they all were, but it doesn’t change anything,” he snaps.

Aziraphale sees a hint of pain in Gabriel’s face. He thinks to ask, maybe, why this strains him so. But he holds his tongue, knowing he’s already on the thinnest of ice. Best not to push it.

He hears a distinct rumbling, and the sturdy ground does harmlessly shake beneath their feet. They are coming. He hopes his dearest demon is with them. He hopes to see him at least once in this romantic Plaza, in view of the massive library and the bronze statues and the rising sun. Just for a moment, to see how he glows.

Beelzebub appears first, in all her slouching glory, hands balled into fists, looking even more worn down than usual. Bags beneath her eyes so heavy, greasy hair knotted and wild. Aziraphale, foolishly hoping that politeness might absolve him, offers her a brief wave. She does not reciprocate. And then, mercifully, he appears. Looking tired and a bit dazed. He realizes then that the two of them must have been at one of those wild parties Crowley is so fond of. Ah, but is he not fond as well? That is where their love did bloom after millennia of agonizing patience. Where, beneath the lights, they kissed and were nothing but wandering, desperately clinging hands…

He is magnificent. Singularly beloved and so very perfect. Aziraphale cannot stop himself; his feet carry him lightly and swiftly toward him, and they embrace as if coming home from war. In Crowley’s thin arms he feels untouchable. Safe forever, even if he knows he isn’t.

“My love…” he mumbles into the dark corner of Crowley’s shoulder. “My sweet love, I was certain—“

Crowley hushes him, running hands down his back. It is a gift that they are not torn apart immediately. Aziraphale wishes he would just stop time, maybe for an hour or two. Would that be so uncouth? It has only been one night and yet it feels like so many eons of distance.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Gabriel says, walking toward them and putting a hand on each of their shoulders, urging them to stop. “Yes, we’re all very charmed by that little display. Now if we could get down to business, please? Beelzebub?”

She strides forward, arms crossed.

“We’ve got to come to a solution, Archangel Gabriel,” she says sternly, her eyes focused on the tips of her shoes. She looks so much smaller than usual, impossibly so. As if she is tempering her power, and he wonders why.

“I couldn’t agree more. These two need to—“

“We need to find a way to leave them be.”

Gabriel opens his mouth in stunned silence.

“I...I beg your fucking pardon?” he asks, getting closer to her, bending down a little so that they’re nearly eye-to-eye. “Are you insane? Well, obviously, you’re a demon, you haven’t got a good head on your shoulders. It’s just not  _ done _ , Beelzebub.”

She’s silent for a moment, daring to look up at him, steeling herself, eyes certain and pointed.

“Have you ever thought about  _ why _ , though, Gabriel?”

There’s a softness in her voice that seems to stun them all. Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s hand, now they are no longer being paid attention to. He gives it a squeeze, sighing in relief, not daring to ask what is Heaven’s name is going on.

“Well—“ Gabriel stammers, standing upright again, folding his arms across his chest. “No, but...I mean, it just doesn’t make sense.” 

Her shoulders slope, and she sighs. 

“I have a proposal,” she says.

“You have a what now—“

Crowley snorts.

“I have an  _ idea _ ,” she says, dropping her arms to her sides. “For how we can leave them alone and not ruin everything.”

“But, Beelzebub…” His voice gets soft and he leans back down. “Why are you acting like this?”

There is a heavy silence. She breathes, slow, her chest rising and falling with such drama it’s almost as if she’s nervous.

“You’ve never loved anyone, so you don’t get it,” she says, with such finality Aziraphale feels his chest grow heavy. Where has all this sorrow come from? When did she become so gentle.

“You don’t know that,” Gabriel says, and his words sound heavy. Beelzebub’s lips part, though she’s silent and lost. She gulps.

Crowley, ever the ham, interrupts, though not without first planting a kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“Listen, Gabriel, we won’t get in anyone’s way. We’ve talked about it. I’ll go on sewing the seeds of evil n’ all that, and Angel will go round doing his good deeds. Things’ll be just like always, except we’ll...be together.” 

Aziraphale’s toes curl in his shoes.  _ Together _ . It never ceases to thrill him.

“We would have to...monitor you rather closely,” Gabriel says.

“Ah, we expected nothing less!” Aziraphale chimes in, holding his hands together. “You have always been very thorough, Gabriel.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Aziraphale.”

“Right. Of course…” He’s met with a comforting pat on the back from Crowley.

“A contract will be drawn up, of course,” Beelzebub says, folding her hands behind her back. “With strict punishments listed for defying us. And you must keep us updated on the status of your relationship.”

“The status?” Crowley asks, ever-so casually tossing an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Lovers’ quarrels and other sundry tumult,” she clarifies. Gabriel sighs and covers his face with one large hand.

“This is gonna be complicated, Beelzebub. It could take weeks to hammer out the details, and I still have to run it by everyone else.”

“Weeks. Yes,” she says, looking coyly at the ground. “We’ll be spending an awful lot of time together. Hope you can stand it.”

It is such a sight, to see Gabriel truly speechless. Crowley makes a noise of recognition, a soft  _ ohhhhh _ as if just realizing something. 

“I suppose we will,” Gabriel says finally. “Um...call me? I guess?” He holds out his hands and shrugs as if at a loss, and she nods, awkwardly reaching for one of his hands to shake it. Aziraphale stifles his laughter, burying his nose in Crowley’s shoulder to keep from getting noticed. He worries that any slight misstep will mean the revocation of their terms.

Beelzebub turns to the two of them, hands on her hips, with a scowl far more gentle than ever before.

“Don’t cause trouble. Well,  _ do _ cause trouble, Crowley. Don’t un-cause trouble.”

“You have my word, my Lord,” he says with a sweeping bow. Beelzebub rolls her eyes. 

And just like that, they are alone. Truly, freely, at least until their superiors change their minds. They join hands and face one another, beaming.

“What should we do now?” Aziraphale asks, and for once, the possibilities do seem truly endless.

“Whatever we want, Angel.”

They want to embrace in the still-rising sunlight, breathing one another in, mumbling sweet nothings and not caring that the Plaza is beginning to fill with people. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can I hear a uwu
> 
> There will be one, possibly two more chapters. I can’t thank you all enough for reading and for being so kind to me in your comments!
> 
> I.....kind of want to write up the contract they have to sign hdhdjsjsksjsk


	15. Do it to me, babe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the penultimate installment

Feeling invisible to everyone but themselves, they meander hand-in-hand across the city. Back to the place where they first plummeted uncontrolled into one another’s arms. Where they irrevocably collided in a rough storm of love. The storm has many eyes, Crowley knows, but it will rage forever. The city does stare as they make their way, but it can’t possibly matter. Nothing seems to, save for finding a place to be alone.

In the warehouse, there is an attic room. It is the most dimly lit place in the building, covered in tapestry and ornate carpeting, a room of unmatched softness and warmth. Sometimes, the artists will stay there, between consistent beds. It is notoriously the place for lovemaking and sweet inspiration. It is the place that Crowley’s dreams take place these days. In his dreams he’s there, and there is no vast ocean, and the ground is steady, and there is nothing but his lover’s breathing body in his arms. And now, navigating the cracks in the sidewalk, it’s almost so, so real. 

They stop often, as if celebrating the end of each block with a quiet kiss. They do not speak because there is too much to say, and now, they know that they have all the time that the universe can hold in its infinite hands. The talking can wait until this elation has calmed a little. Crowley wonders if it ever truly will.

They climb the stairs of the warehouse, and his demonic will ensures there will be no one in the attic to bother them. Just the empty dark room, the only light filtering in through the fibers of the curtains and old wood, just wide mattresses on the floor and many blankets. 

“Why are we here?” Aziraphale finally asks, looking about the room, his eyes so soft on every comfortable surface. Crowley locks the door behind them.

“Can I tempt you with a little sin, Angel?” Crowley asks, approaching, gathering Aziraphale’s face in his hands.

“Oh my…” His blush is so endearing. Crowley grins.

“It’ll hurt me to say it, but  _ God _ , I love you.”

Aziraphale seems to flutter like wings, smiling and laughing with utter joy and relief.

“And I love  _ you _ , my darling,” he says, sinking into the embrace, arms around Crowley’s neck, holding on for dear life.

Crowley snaps his fingers before plunging into a deep kiss, thousands of years in the making. The needle on the record playing settles down into the grooves, and a sweet song plays as they dispense with so many years of waiting.

_ Surprise, surprise _

_ The boys are home _

_ My guardian angel _

_ Run down my telephone _

_ The heats on, mister _

_ Can't you hear them scream, _

_ What ever happened to the teenage dream? _

It is funny that, even though their intimacy is brand new and frighteningly green, it feels as though they have been preparing their entire lives. To be inside of another person, but to feel as though you have already shared one body and soul, it is enough to bring Aziraphale to tears. They are swiftly dried, kissed away, all that sorrow healed. Crowley has long known the human inclination to touch the skin, and understood why it could drive men mad and make them weak-willed and malleable. But now, he knows for certain that men don’t really get it, that no one has known a love like this, that no one has made love quite how they do. There is nothing in the world to explain it. They have a word for that, don’t they? He smiles into the curve of Aziraphale’s neck as they rest, not bothering to cure the human curse of their bodies’ sweat. 

“My goodness...” Aziraphale sighs, seeming unable to express his pleasure, his utter shock that anything could ever be so good. Crowley grins, ever-smug, knowing that he’s not in any place to act proud. He is just as changed now. Just as floored by the love and the touch and the dizzy feeling in his head.

“Six-thousand years…” Crowley mumbles. 

“I would have waited thousands more, if I had to. For you to come around.”

“For  _ me  _ to come around?” Crowley asks, propping himself up on his elbows. “Angel, you broke every record for playing um... _ hard-to-get. _ You could have asked me, any time, to be with you, and I’d have done it.”

“R...really?” Aziraphale asks, so surprised but still so gleeful.

“How are you brilliant and so fucking stupid all at once?” he asks, laughing, collapsing into the pillow, gazing at him adoringly. “I only kept it quiet because you…” His face grows sad, though still with the flush of happy love in his eyes. “You said I went too fast.”

“I was cruel, then. Afraid, I suppose.”

“I’ll always forgive you.”

“Forgiven by a demon,” Aziraphale teases, smiling proudly, rolling into his back and settling his hands on top of his chest. “Lucky me!”

And there they lay, admitting their mistakes, apologizing for every little thing they’ve done to hurt one another. Saying  _ I love you _ hundreds of times as if to make up for all their wasted time. Until the sun goes down, and the sound of revelry echoes up the stairs. It is time, once again, to leave their garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (cries into my coffee) I just think they’re neat
> 
> The song this time is “teenage dream” by T Rex, which I know didn’t come out until 1974, but I don’t! Care! That string section is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, sue me.
> 
> There will be an epilogue including the terms of their arrangement, and then it will be finished! Thank you all so much for sticking with me!!! I’ve had so much fun writing this and being emo about it. I will probably write some more for this fandom before college starts up again next month, and lbr, probably during the semester too because I have no willpower.
> 
> Upon reflection I think I might change the title of the work but I don’t wanna throw people off


	16. Oh, sweet nothin’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.
> 
> (Updates twice in one day because why not)

_ London SoHo. 1973. Dusk. _

He’s come to be fond of Joni Mitchell, over time. Even if it’s only because it seems he can fit his love into every lyric, bending her words to remind him of Crowley, who is plunging a corkscrew into a vintage Zinfandel. Aziraphale puts the record on, hands so careful not to warp or scratch.

He’s handed a glass of wine, and he thanks his lover with an adoring smile. They have been living this way for months, with ease and joy, unbothered by their superiors. They spend the mornings in bed, and some afternoons, and most nights, passing but certainly never wasting time, doing as they please, with just a little work on the side. Sundry temptations and miracles, always coming home to their greatest devotion.

_ I wanna be strong I wanna laugh along _

_ I wanna belong to the living _

_ Alive, alive, I want to get up and jive _

_ I want to wreck my stockings in some jukebox dive _

_ Do you want, do you want, do you wanna dance with me baby? _

Crowley playfully twirls him beneath his arm, and Aziraphale laughs lightly. 

“What shall we do this evening, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, lazily and uncaring, as he knows they will do as they always do: enjoy one another, without having to worry.

“You’ll finish reading that book, won’t you?”

“You really did like my reading it aloud?” Aziraphale asks, taking a sip of his wine, taking a moment to savor the taste on his tongue before swallowing.

“Yeah, I did,” Crowley admits, walking over to the coffee table to pick up the tattered copy of  _ Giovanni’s Room _ . 

“Well alright then!” Aziraphale agrees, excitedly taking the novel in his hands and searching for where they left off. “You know, I had the opportunity to meet Baldwin, once. He was delightful. A genius.”

“Careful now, I’ll be jealous,” Crowley says, taking him by the hand and leading him to the couch where they usually sit.

“Oh, really Crowley, you know I have no room in my heart for anyone else.”

Always he seems to succeed in flustering his darling demon with such sweet things. Crowley mumbles a gentle  _ shut up _ as they sit together, settling in. He lays his head in Aziraphale’s lap, ready to listen, to get drunk off Zinfandel and his lover’s sweet voice.

There comes a shuffle from the door to the bookshop, and their reading is cut short. A rather hefty envelope has fallen through the mail slot and onto the floor.

“Odd, it’s so late…”

“I’d know that seal anywhere, Angel. S’from Hell,” Crowley says, standing up and heading for the envelope. “Our contract.”

“Oh, dear…”

“A shame. I was having such a good time without any rules.”

“Me too,” Aziraphale laments, grabbing for his silver letter opener, gently sliding the blade beneath the flap. It’s a stack of papers detailing the parameters of their agreement, what they can and cannot do, reporting criteria, etc. “I suppose Baldwin will have to wait, my dear. I’ll be reading  _ this _ tonight instead.”

Crowley shrugs and heads back to the couch.

“Lay it on me, Angel.”

Aziraphale gets his reading glasses out of his desk (my goodness, Beelzebub has poor penmanship) and puts them on, clearing his throat and sitting next to Crowley.

“Hrm… ‘this is a holy and damned, legally binding agreement which will heretofore provide the rules and regulations regarding the relationship of the angel, Aziraphale, and the demon, Crowley.’”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush.”

Aziraphale gives him a tired look, and goes on reading.

“‘Section I: on…’” He stammers. “‘On fornication.’” Crowley laughs out loud, leaning in, suddenly a lot more interested in the contents of the contract. “‘The involved parties may engage in human sexual activity, provided they do not—‘ I’m quoting this directly, ‘make it weird for everyone.’ The involved parties may only fornicate with one another, and the demon Crowley may not invent any new salacious acts without first getting permission from Lord Beelzebub.”

“She won’t want to know, not really. Right?” Crowley asks, grabbing the paper out of Aziraphale’s hands. “Hang on, Angel, my turn.”

He refills his glass and reads from the pages, a smug, sly grin on his face.

“‘The involved parties shall report any quarreling to their superiors, who should also be immediately notified of a termination of the aforementioned relationship.’ They really don’t think we’re gonna last, do they?”

“Well, I do like proving Gabriel wrong. I’m certain that part was his idea, though.”

“Oh-ho…” Crowley chuckles. “What about this bit: ‘The involved parties have, unintentionally and unfortunately, set a precedent for the possibility of future angel-demon relationships.’”

“Oh I’m quite sure that’s something they agreed upon together,” Aziraphale hints, raising his brow as his lips touch the rim of his wine glass. “It all seems very straightforward. Anything complicated in there?”

Crowley skims the document, searching for anything that might actually cause issues.

“Hm. Says here you’re contractually obligated to kiss me awake in the mornings,” Crowley insists.

“Oh does it? Is there a clause that says I get to choose the music every other night?”

“Hey now, love, Joni was your idea tonight.”

“I was feeling  _ romantic _ , Crowley.”

_ Oh you are in my blood like holy wine. _

_ You taste so bitter _

_ And so sweet oh, _

_ I could drink a case of you darling and I would _

_ Still be on my feet. _

Soon, the document drops to the floor, forgotten in exchange for buzzed kissing and the trading of promises.  _ I will love you always _ .  __ They finish one bottle, and they fall into bed. They begin another, and they read their Baldwin, lost in the amorous despair of the narration, so glad to be free of any such restriction and worry. And this night, like so many other nights, becomes sewn into their long and ongoing history, stored away in their shared heart to be remembered fondly until time itself is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs are both off of the album “Blue” (“all I want,” and “a case of you”)
> 
> The book they’re reading is Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin, and it’s fantastic and I can’t recommend it enough.
> 
> This has been such an emotional ride for me and I really feel like I can be proud of some of the things I’ve managed to do here. Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I will certainly be doing more.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Find me on Twitter @peebnutbutter (fandom and nerdery account) or @ezrapoundme (main account)


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